


Once You've Tasted Flight

by randomdreamer01



Series: The Germans Wore Grey, You Wore Blue [7]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Romance, World War II, badass female pilots and espionage, with matters of the heart thrown in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 89,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdreamer01/pseuds/randomdreamer01
Summary: Cassian looked down at her from his impressive height, something…unreadable swimming in his gaze. Flecks of gold seemed to be dancing in those eyes of his. But it could just be the light, she reflected softly…Then she realised that therewasno light. Just the rain.It was 1939. The war had only just begun, and Jyn Erso had had enough of rain....You get to do a lot of living during a war.





	1. Prologue or “We That Are Young Shall Never See So Much”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kobo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kobo/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am BACK, guys! I am still alive! _*waves enthusiastically*_
> 
> Now, as you can tell from my body of work, I’m not really good at writing multi-chapter stories, and I’ve never managed to finish any of my original novels before. This is going to be my most ambitious fanfiction project yet, so PLEASE be kind and stick with me. Leave me your thoughts whenever you can, and hopefully I’d be able to see this whole thing through! 
> 
> This story is dedicated to **Kobo**. The idea of Jyn as a female pilot was born out of one of her comments regarding the WASP. The WASP will be showing up in a later chapter, and although they are not the main part of this story, I hope you’re going to be happy with what I’ve decided to do. 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than a House Stark family reunion. So please leave one if you can!

_When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return._

**Leonardo da Vinci**

* * *

 

 

  

_Today is the day I die._

This was the thought that crossed Cassian Andor’s mind when he heard footsteps descending on the floor above his cell, waking him up from his fitful sleep. For the briefest of moments, he thought the sound was the rain, pelting gently against a window pane. But then he remembered that cellars had no windows, and the walls were so thick he would never know anyway. 

The footsteps belonged to two men, he could discern. One was walking quite fast, his steps sounding hurried and light to Cassian’s ears. The other man was rather more cautious, his steps distinctly more firm and measured. They were his executioners, Cassian knew; the Gestapos never bothered with their prisoners at this time of night unless it was for execution. Cassian simply hoped that neither one of these men was Hans. The young German had been nice to him, kind even, the only friendly face he had seen since they put him in this godforsaken place. He felt guilty enough over what he had already put the boy through, and no boy that young should ever have to execute someone in cold blood. 

_But you did once,_ a voice whispered, and Cassian nearly laughed. But he pushed the thought and the memory away as quick as it came. _Unhelpful. Irrelevant._ There were cracks in his palms - peeled-off skin and crusted-blood - when he lifted them to cover his face. 

The men would be carrying guns, Cassian assumed. At least he hoped they would be. It would be quicker that way, for all three of them - the executed and the executioners. Cassian pitied his fellow prisoners who had gotten the shovels and the axes more than he could say; _that_ was not a good way to die. Sometimes, late at night, when the memories and the dreams were choking him until he could not breathe, he thought he could still hear them screaming as they died.

“I am ready to die,” Cassian Andor said into the dark void. 

It did not shock him that he had said those words out loud; for weeks and months now, he had been talking to himself like a mad man. What shocked him, however, was that he did not know if he had uttered those words in Spanish, in English, in German, or in his broken, garbled French. It wouldn’t matter anyway, he quickly reminded himself. Death has no language, and he was a soldier and a spy; he had always been ready to die. And he had been expecting to die _here_ ever since they put him in the back of that truck. Ever since he heard the first four notes of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony on Radio Londres all those weeks ago through the bars of his cell. Invasion was liberation for France, but it was not liberation for him. 

The footsteps were coming down the stairs now; Cassian could hear the scrapings of the men’s boots against the wood. _It will be soon._

“I am ready to die,” he said again. 

What was it that Jyn had told him once? _You can do more._ Well, he had tried to do more. He _had_ done more. And he could only hope that she would be proud of him, wherever she was. He only wished that he could see her one last time. The thought of her made him sadder than the thought of dying ever could. 

The men were now at the end of the corridor. _Thud, thud, thud,_ went their subdued footsteps. Soon, the door of the room would be thrown open, and they would drag him out from his cell and into the freezing cold of the French winter. He did not have much time. 

So Cassian Andor closed his eyes and pictured faces…the faces of those he had loved: his friends’, full of joy as they laughed on a burning beach; his mother’s, blurred and hidden in shadows; his long dead father’s, wearied but defiant; and hers…hers most of all…how she had looked in the dim light of a street lamp all those years ago. The warm, yellow glow had framed her face just right, and she had stared down at him from the top of the steps, her eyes shining as bright as torches. She looked beautiful in the half-darkness. 

_Yes. Yes, I am ready._

The lock turned, as quietly and meticulously as the night, and a small, cracked smile stretched across Cassian Andor’s haggard face. 

_Yes. Today is the day I die._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know this little prologue makes no sense whatsoever, but it will later, I promise! 
> 
> A quick note: the titles of all the chapters are going to be quotes from William Shakespeare. This is because I am still a pretentious English Lit student at heart. 
> 
> Another note: [You can check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> PLEASE leave me your thoughts or any questions you might have. I always love reading and replying to your comments! 
> 
> .
> 
>    
>  _Up next: “Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company” - in which we go back to the very beginning._


	2. Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go back to the very beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much to those who left comments on my very confusing prologue! Here’s the first chapter in all its muddled, atmospheric glory. I hope you’ll enjoy it! [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> A very important note: the structure of this story, with the prologue and the beginning of this first chapter, is something I have unashamedly stolen from [**The Life and Times** by Jewels5](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5200789/1/The-Life-and-Times), the legendary Harry Potter fanfic that everyone - I mean, _everyone_ \- should read. I dare not compare my work to Jules’. Not in a million years. 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than the fantasy of Colin Farrell as Gellert Grindelwald. So please leave one if you can.

_We had not thought that we would have to fight in darkness, or that light would be our enemy._

**Mea Allan,** Daily Herald journalist, 1939 

* * *

 

In 1944, Kes Dameron would (nearly) give up on what he wanted most.

In 1944, Shara Bey would ask a very important question.

In 1944, James Kay would break the rules for someone he loved.

In 1944, Bodhi Rook would wait for something much longer than he ought to.

In 1944, Cassian Andor would do something heroic against his better judgement. 

In 1944, Jyn Erso would make a choice even when she had none. 

And in 1944, Jyn Erso would kiss Cassian Andor. Or was it the other way around? 

But more on that much, much later. 

 

.

.

 

It all began with an umbrella and an arm band. The umbrella was black, as black as midnight, and much larger than any umbrella had any right to be, while the armband was shockingly white, as white as the blackout protocols dictated. He opened up the umbrella while a steady rain fell, covering the dark streets of London in a foggy, wet mist; the armband he had already offered to her with a slight nod of his head. He did everything grudgingly, as though he did not care one whit whether she made it home alive or not. At first glance, he looked nothing like the sort of man who would give the time of day to a young woman who had had too much to drink. 

“Where did you get the umbrella from?” she asked him. She had not seen him with one while they were drinking inside the pub. 

His jaws tightened. “I took it from behind the bar.” 

“So you stole it?” 

His eyes - tired and brown and sharp - sized her up. “I didn’t say that,” he told her quietly. He scratched the back of his head in an absentminded manner. There were tiny drops of rain on the left shoulder of his uniform. “It’s a long walk. Do you want to get under it or not?” 

She made a show of frustratingly pulling on the armband; her head might be spinning from the alcohol, but she still wanted to maintain _some_ semblance of dignity, damn it. It would not do to make him think he could have his way with _everything._ He was a stranger, after all. A friend of a friend, of a friend, but still…a stranger. 

“That depends,” she said, lips pursed together stubbornly. “Are you going to murder me and dump my body in the Thames?” 

She thought she saw a ghost of a smile flittered across his features, but when he spoke again, his voice remained impassive. “You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m hysterical,” she said dryly. “You’re just not keeping up.” 

His eyebrows lifted, but he did not say anything. Perhaps he was annoyed…or intrigued, she could not quite tell. She sighed. 

“Alright,” she said, relenting at last. “I suppose you’ll have to do, then.” 

She rolled her eyes, but she took a few steps forward so that his umbrella could shelter her from the downpour. Once she had stepped into his space, he looked down at her from his impressive height, something…unreadable swimming in his gaze. Flecks of gold seemed to be dancing in those eyes of his. But it could just be the light, she reflected softly…Then she realised that there _was_ no light. Just the rain.

It was 1939. The war had only just begun, and Jyn Erso had had enough of rain. 

 

Five hours ago, she had been sitting on the edge of her bed and reflecting on this very fact as she watched her flatmate get dressed for the evening. It had not begun to rain then, but she had heard the forecast on the radio that morning: a light shower, with a chance of thunderstorm. 

“It’s _not_ going to rain, you idiot,” her flatmate Shara Bey was saying loudly as she ran a brush through her dark, curly hair. Shara was tall, much taller than Jyn, and even in her cream-coloured slip with no make-up on, she looked stunning and impressive enough that it was a bit frightening.She glowered at Jyn in the mirror. “Why are you English always so damn pessimistic?” 

Jyn smirked as she removed her cigarette from her lips. Unlike her friend, she was still in her dressing gown, her hair still tousled from her afternoon nap. “And why are you Americans always so bloody loud?”

Shara made a tutting noise. “A _Guatemalan_ -American, honey. Not just an American.”

Jyn rolled her eyes. If she had a pound for every time she had heard Shara make the correction, she would be a wealthy woman by now.

Shara continued airily, “Besides, who knows when we’ll get to go out for a drink once we join the ATA?” 

Yes, there it was again, the palpable excitement in Shara’s voice. It made Jyn smile. The Air Transport Auxiliary had announced that they would be accepting female pilots, and ever since she and Jyn had been accepted into the program, Shara could not help but slip the subject into every conversation. It did not matter whether she was talking to people her own age or to Mrs. Gibbs, their old landlady; Shara could talk about flying until she dropped dead. She was unapologetically fearless that way. Jyn had become friends with her a few short years ago when they were the only two people in flight training who did a spin when they were specifically told not to.

“We’ll have time for plenty of drinks,” said Jyn, lighting a new cigarette. “You just want to go to the pub to say goodbye to your soldier.”

“He’s not _my_ soldier,” Shara admonished.

“Well,” said Jyn, who had had this argument with her friend countless of times before, “he is _a_ soldier, and he _is_ leaving.” Kes Dameron would be part of the second wave of British Expeditionary Force being sent to France. 

Shara immediately stopped brushing her hair. A strange expression stole into her face. “All this leaving schtick is already getting old, don’t you think?” she mumbled, attempting to look perturbed. “Men assume they can make us do whatever they want because they might die in a couple of months.” 

“Well, they might,” said Jyn, although she was somewhat amused. 

Shara snorted as she ferociously resumed the brushing of her hair. “Please! There’s no fighting in France yet. They’re just… _there_ , dicing and whoring.” 

Jyn laughed. “I don’t think Kes is the whoring type.” 

“He keeps asking me to be his girl,” said Shara, frowning. 

“Well, what did you say?” asked Jyn, even though she already knew the answer. 

“No, of course.” Shara put down her brush and began putting on make-up with more force than usual. “I already told him when we met. I’m not looking for anything serious. But, damn the man, he keeps asking and asking.” 

“He likes you.”

“Well, I like him, but he doesn’t have to be a baby about it.”

“Well, he _really_ likes you.” 

Shara whirled around to glare at Jyn. “Are you telling me to say yes?”

“I’m not telling you to say anything.” Jyn shrugged. “I’m simply pointing out the obvious.”

Sighing, Shara turned back to the mirror and changed the subject hurriedly. “I wish you would get dressed already, Erso.” 

“Get dressed for what? For sticking around like a sore thumb while you and Kes slobber all over each other?” She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. “I’d rather go dicing and whoring.” 

The brush hit Jyn squarely in the stomach and made her laugh. “Careful! If I get injured, you’ll have no friends in the ATA!” 

“I don’t seem to have any friends _now_.” Shara stuck out her tongue at Jyn before grabbing the dress she had hung up by the door. The dress was deep green, with sprinkles of fake diamonds circling the waist. “And you wouldn’t be alone with us, I’ll have you know. Kes is bringing a friend.”

“A friend?” 

“Well…that’s what he told me when he called.” 

“I’m assuming this friend is male?”

“Honey, you _know_ he is. I can’t be the only one having all the fun.” 

Jyn rolled her eyes, reaching down for the newspaper on the floor. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” 

Something else hit her hard in the shoulder. This time it was an empty tube of lipstick. And Jyn looked up to see her friend, now looking resplendent in her green dress, holding another brush in her hand. 

“I mean it, Erso. Get dressed,” said Shara. “I’m running out of things to throw at you.”

 

* * *

 

The pub was in Leicester square, a tiny little establishment that one would miss if one had not been looking for it. With all the windows entirely covered for the blackout, the place blended in with the rest of the grey and cream-coloured buildings, a mere hovel but one with hidden secrets. Hardly a single ray of light escaped out onto the street. It was November, which meant it was already dark by the time Jyn and Shara arrived. 

Kes Dameron was half-English and half-Cuban, with the same dark hair and olive skin as Shara, and when he stood up to greet them, he towered over them both. He had an easy smile and brown eyes that seemed to laugh more than he himself did, which was saying a lot. 

“I see you’ve dressed up for me,” he told Shara. There was an ease to the way he kissed her on the cheek and pulled her down to sit beside him. 

Shara made a show of slapping him lightly on the shoulder, before gesturing to his uniform. “And I see you haven’t.” 

“Oh, well, you keep insisting we’re nothing special.” Kes shrugged, eyes twinkling playfully. “So I didn’t bother.” 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” 

“Jyn, nice to see you again,” Kes remarked instead. “Have you grown taller since last I saw you?” 

“Haha. Very funny, you.” Jyn plopped herself into the chair across from the pair, and that was when she first noticed the man sitting beside Kes. He was half-hidden in shadows, half-sipping on a pint of beer, quiet as a mouse. He had not stood up when she and Shara entered, and had remained still in his seat, almost disappearing into the wall like an unremarkable piece of furniture. “Who’s this, then?”

When the man’s eyes met hers very briefly, it was _she_ who looked away quickly. 

“Oh, this is someone from my unit,” explained Kes. He looked rather apologetic. “Cassian Andor.” 

“Hello, Cassian Andor,” said Shara cheerily enough. She reached across the table to shake the man’s hand. “Shara Bey.”

“Yes, I know who you are.” He had an interesting accent; definitely not English. 

“This is my friend, Jyn,” said Shara, nodding. 

The man threw another briefest of glances in her direction. “Nice to meet you, Jyn.” 

“Nice to meet you too,” said Jyn. 

And that was all they said to each other for the next hour. It was up to Shara and Kes to keep the conversation going, and they did so in the only way they knew how: funny, engaging, with sprinkles of kisses and banter. Jyn joined in whenever she could, until the pub came to life around them and it became harder and harder to make themselves heard above the den of the crowd and the music playing from the wireless set. Cassian Andor, the dark mysterious man in the crisp uniform, said nothing; he simply nursed his drink, staring sullenly around the place, looking like he wished he could be anywhere else. Jyn found herself glowering at him whenever she could. 

_What is the bastard’s problem?_

Eventually, Kes pulled Shara to her feet and they joined the other couples dancing on the floor. Jyn finished her third pint and slammed the glass down on the table harder than she had intended to. The man called Cassian did not even blink. 

“Are you going to sit here like a mute all night?” Jyn demanded at last. She could not quite help herself; her tongue always became a bit loose after a few drinks. 

Cassian Andor looked mildly amused. “Beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Jyn smirked. She refused to look him in the eye. “Why even bothered coming along?”

“Dameron can be very persistent when he wants to be. And I had nothing else better to do.”

She turned in her seat to study him. He was not bad-looking in the dim light; there was something attractive in the downward curve of his mouth and the way he kept rubbing his jaw casually. Those cheekbones were also the work of the devil, she could not help but think. Too bad the rest of him was so infuriatingly…silent.

She heard herself asking, “Don’t you have a girl of your own to spend your last night of freedom with, Cassian Andor?”

“No.” 

“Any other friends?” 

“I prefer the company of only a few.” 

“Nothing sordid planned as a last hurrah?”

“Can this pub be qualified as sordid?” 

She groaned. “Bloody hell, you’re dull.” 

“Speak for yourself, Miss Jyn Erso. You’re also here alone.” She thought she caught a glimpse of a smile, but he took a sip of his drink, drowning it away. 

“Well, I didn’t - ”

“How long do you think it’ll take for your friend to break my friend’s heart?”

_That_ was unexpected. She stared at him. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being realistic.” He lifted his pint and gave a mocking toast to Shara and Kes, who were still dancing at the far end of the room. “Dameron has more decency than sense. While your friend…” 

“You don’t know her,” Jyn snapped. Anger flared up within her as quick as flames trickling up a dry branch. “She’s a good person.” 

“She maybe a good person, but she’s a child.” 

“Like I said. You don’t know her,” she repeated, harsher this time. “And who the bloody hell are _you,_ thinking your friend is so perfect?” 

“Dameron is not perfect,” said Cassian patiently as if talking to a child. “But at least he knows what he wants.”

“And my friend doesn’t?”

“Not even close.” 

Jyn scowled at him and considered throwing her empty glass at his stupid head and knocking that weary, pretentious look off his face. She wanted to spit at him. To make him understand that he knew nothing about _anyone_. To make him feel as unguarded and irritated as _she_ felt. But the only words that came to her were: “You’re uncommonly rude for an officer in uniform.” 

He did not miss a beat. “And you’re uncommonly angry for a pilot.”

Before Jyn could offer a retort, a different voice rang out. “Pardon me, miss, but might I buy you a drink?” Jyn looked up and saw a youth around her own age, golden-haired and with a wide, toothy grin, hovering near their table. “I see you’ve finished yours,” continued the lad in a lilting Irish accent. He lifted up a pint brimming with beer. 

Somehow, Cassian bristled. “I don’t think - ”

“Oh, yes, please, I’ll be delighted!” Jyn said quickly to the Irishman. She threw Cassian one last contemptuous glare before gesturing for the newcomer to join them.

And this was the start of the rest of the night for Jyn. The Irish lad took up Kes’ empty seat and kept the drinks coming, pint after pint. Before long, he and Jyn were downing them all and laughing at something or other, almost rolling onto the floor. Jyn did not know what the man called Cassian Andor made of it all; she made a point not to look. She knew she ought to quit while she was ahead, but restraint had never been one of her best qualities. She was annoyed and angry with the world, and damn it, she had always been one to set fire to things that made her mad. 

Suddenly she found herself swept up on her feet. The ground shook beneath her. They were dancing, she thought, she and the Irish lad. Or was it someone else? Well, whoever it was, he was smiling at her and laughing merrily at everything she said. A pair of blue eyes, then green, then black. The wireless was playing a lovely song, one of her favourites, although she could not recall the name of it for the life of her. Another pint was pushed into her hand. “More drinks!” someone shouted. 

She was hoisted up on someone’s shoulders. She called for Shara, but Shara did not appear. Then suddenly she had darts clutched in her hand, and she was throwing them at a dart board at the back of the bar. God, she hoped she hit the target, but she had no way of knowing. “More drinks!” another person roared, and _another_ pint materialised in her hand. Time rushed pass, and everything blurred together like the pictures she kept seeing in her sleep every night, with the sounds and the sights making her as drunk as the alcohol. The memories did not seem so bad now, she thought wistfully, when the stranger let her off his shoulders. 

The world turned around her. She heard herself laughing, but the laughter sounded as though it was coming from another person entirely.

“Come on,” someone was saying, pulling on her arm. 

“More drinks!” she shouted. She heard cheers.

“Come on,” that someone said again, as though from very far away. “It’s late.”

“My handbag…”

“Your handbag?”

“I had…a handbag.” A dark-blue handbag. Or was it black? Her head was spinning. She reached out blindly and found herself wrapping her arms around that someone’s neck. That someone was warm, incredibly warm. The touch made her go dizzy. “Shara…”

“Shara’s gone,” that someone replied. She caught the voice better then. A man. She almost stumbled into him, but he steadied her just in time. She felt the scrape of a beard against her cheek. 

The closeness of another body brought last night’s dream rushing back to her, and she had an absurd desire to weep. The sobs bubbled up inside her like a volcano. And the _faces_ …so many faces. But the man’s hold on her arm was firm, and somehow, it stopped the first few tears from falling. He led her outside, through the crowds of dancing and drinking men and women, some in uniform and some not, and past the packed tables and dark corners. The pub’s door snapped shut behind them with hardly a sound. The darkness enveloped them in an instant, and something wet hit her cheeks. At first, she thought it was her own tears, but then she realised it was raining. 

She struggled out of the man’s grip and steadied herself against the door. “My handbag,” she said again stupidly. 

“I think you might have lost it,” replied the man. “While you were…dancing and drinking with strangers. I think you were…throwing darts at the barkeeper at one point? Impressive.” 

She might be drunk, but there was no mistaking the amusement in the man’s tones. She turned, squinted through the slight rain and fog. It was Cassian Andor, and he was standing a few feet away, his hand outstretched toward her. He was holding out a white armband, similar to the one he himself now wore. 

He inclined his head slightly. “Put this on,” he said. They both knew she had to; it was part of the blackout safety protocols so that passing cars and other pedestrians could see them in the dark. 

“I have…I have my own. In my handbag.”

“Your handbag is gone,” Cassian Andor repeated. “I have an extra one.” 

She took it from him automatically. The fabric felt coarse in her hand. “Where’s Shara? And Kes?” she asked him again. 

“They’ve gone.” 

_Bloody Shara_ , she cursed inwardly. “I need…I need to take the bus home.” 

“No buses this late,” Cassian told her confidently.

“This late?” Jyn’s head spun again. “How late is it?”

“Late,” said Cassian. “Where do you live?”

She hesitated, but then something wild within her urged her on. “Kennington Road. Just across the river.”

Without a hint of…. _anything,_ really, Cassian simply said, “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to.” 

He shrugged. “It’s not a problem. Like I said, I have nothing else to do.” 

She noticed for the first time that he had an umbrella when he opened it up, and she asked him curiously where he got it from. 

“I took it from behind the bar,” he replied. 

“So you stole it?” 

“I didn’t say that. It’s a long walk. Do you want to get under it or not?” 

“That depends. Are you going to murder me and dump my body in the Thames?” 

“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m hysterical. You’re just not keeping up.” 

 

* * *

 

With the blackout, almost all the city’s street lamps had been put out and all windows covered. Even the cars driving pass only had their sidelights on, with their bumpers painted white. Jyn and Cassian managed to stay on the pavement and avoided the roads by looking at the white markings on the concrete; a passing female ARP warden gave them an approving nod. Only the lions in Trafalgar Square seemed to gleam black and magnificent in the moonlight. Jyn imagined their marble fur must be smooth to the touch; if only she were tall enough to reach them as she walked pass. The rain was clearing her head a little, and the soft, cold wind began to stir her senses back to life. There was a kind of peaceful sweetness to Central London at night. 

Cassian said nothing as they crossed the square and strolled past Nelson's Column, then down Whitehall and on past Downing Street. He merely took her elbow sometimes and steered her off the road whenever a car drove by. His posture - straight, hard, efficient - never changed, but she had a feeling that he kept his strides small so that she could keep up. 

Finally, once they caught sight of the Thames, Jyn could not stomach the silence any longer, and said sarcastically, “Nice night for a walk.”

For a moment, Cassian seemed surprise that she had spoken up, and he hesitated a little. “I suppose.” 

“Don’t you like the rain?”

“I’m afraid I prefer sunshine.”

She was not surprised. “Where are you from, Cassian Andor?”

Another brief moment of hesitation. “I was born in Morelos.” 

She frowned, trying to place the city. “Morelos? That’s in…”

“The south of Mexico.” 

There was a story there, and if she was sober, she could have unravelled it. She cocked her head sideways. “How come you’re here, then?”

He shrugged. When he replied, every syllable was weighed down with more caution than they previously were. “I’ve spent some time here. Joined the army here. My mother was English.” 

“She _was_ English?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” And in a voice that was incredibly still, she said, “My mother’s dead too.”

Another moment of silence. Then he remarked humourlessly, “Well…shit happens, I suppose.” 

She almost laughed at that, but did not. A broken sound did escape her, though, like a laugh that had somehow gone wrong. 

They were now at Westminster Bridge, and she decided to look up at him, finding his eyes with her own. Behind him, the Houses of Parliament and the Big Ben stood silhouetted against the dark sky. The moonlight touched his face gently, and it made him look like one of those tired soldiers she had known when she was younger. The thousand-yard stare, barely formed, but _there_ still. 

She had met men who were shipping off to war before. Usually they were green boys, eyes blazing with hope of glory. Even Kes. But Cassian looked as though he already carried the war with him; it set heavy on his shoulders and is visible in every line on his not-so-young face.

_Strange_ , she mused, _for someone so young._

The Big Ben tolled for midnight. 

_You can find your soul in London,_ her mother had told her once, a long time ago, back when she was still alive. It was those words Jyn thought of now. Her mother’s face, almost half-forgotten, seemed to float before her in her mind’s eye. She had only lived in London for a short period of time when she was very small. She had grown up in Berlin, across the ravaged continent of Europe, but those places were nothing but poisoned memories to her now. London was different, she reflected. Here in London she was still… _whole._

“You’re…strange,” she heard herself say to Cassian. Or maybe it was the _city_ talking…or the alcohol…

He frowned down at her as they began walking again, across the bridge and toward the river bank. “Strange how?”

“You’re…I don’t know.” She could not find the right words to make him understand. 

“You’re strange too,” said Cassian. “You’re going to join the ATA as a female pilot.”

“So is Shara. I don’t see how that’s strange.” 

He did not elaborate, but said, “They require women with flying experience. Hours. Where’d get them from?”

“The hours?”

“Yes.”

Jyn made herself shrug nonchalantly, but the dreams rushed back. “I…I had practice. I took…lessons, of sorts.” 

She and Shara would be heading for ATA training in a couple of days, she wanted to tell him but didn’t. Soon, it would be to the skies. And although she knew they would be stuck with ferrying planes for the RAF rather than combat flying, she would take all that she could get. She hated being grounded just as much as Shara did. She missed the freedom and the vastness with an ache so painful that it twisted her up inside. Her ghosts were quieter up in the sky.

He seemed to understand her silence. “You don’t want to talk about the past.”

“Yes. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not particularly, no.” He smiled thinly, and the smile stretched over his weary face, making him look a little younger. “I suppose that’s for the best.”

They made it across the river and started down south, winding down streets and alleys, crossing small squares and empty junctions. When they reached Kennington Road, Jyn prodded Cassian in the direction of her building and he let her climb up the steps without uttering so much as a word. She lingered there on the top stone, turning around to look at him properly again. The rain had petered out a little, but not completely. There was a street lamp nearby, its yellow light dimmed and broken, a freak among the rest of its dark fellows. 

“Thank you,” Jyn said, “for the walk.”

Cassian shrugged again and did not smile. “Your welcome.” 

A jolt of madness seemed to spur her on. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice suddenly harsh. 

He flinched. “What do I…want?” He sounded puzzled. 

“Yes, what do you want?” She crossed her arms. “You must want something. Giving me the armband, the umbrella, offering to walk me home…”

“You don’t trust people much, do you?” His mouth thinned into a straight, angry line. “Why would you assume that I’d want something from you?”

“Well, it’s your last night off, isn’t it?” She knew she should stop talking now, but she ploughed on. “You don’t seem like a social bloke, but you’re out at the pub anyway, probably hoping to take some girl home. Do you want to climb up these steps and let me take you inside? Isn’t that what you’re looking for? A quick fuck before you get shipped across the channel?” 

His expression hardened even more, but still he did not move. “Your words, not mine.”

“So you’re not denying it?” 

He sighed. “I didn’t say that.” 

“You don’t say _anything._ ”

“Why does it bother you so much that I don’t talk much?” Cassian spit out the words angrily. “I don’t owe you an explanation. We don’t know each other. We’re not _friends._ ”

She recrossed her arms; she could not argue with that. But she asked again, stubbornly, “So?”

“Your friend asked me to look after you before she left with Dameron,” said Cassian, his voice now as hard and still as his expression. “I wasn’t thinking of seducing you. I simply did what your friend asked me to do. But I’m glad you have such a high opinion of me. I’ll remember that.”

“That’s not what I - ”

“Goodnight, Miss Erso.”

And before she could think of anything else to say, he turned on his heel and stalked off.

_Blast it all!_

Jyn stared after his retreating back for a few moments until he was swallowed up by the dark. Then she began unlocking her front door, muttering curses under her breath. (Thankfully, she had kept her house keys in her coat pocket, and not in her handbag.) She stomped up the stairs loudly, not quite caring that she might wake the old landlady on the second floor. It bothered her - the stupid, tiny misunderstanding with the stranger she had just met. This Cassian Andor, with the shrewd eyes and the subtle smile. She was embarrassed, she realised, as she unlocked the room she shared with Shara. She groped around and switched on the light. Her flatmate had not yet come home. Jyn was not expecting her to any time soon. _And I could have had taken advantage of it had I not been so off my head!_

“Put out that light!” someone yelled from across the street. One of their annoying neighbours, probably. 

Cursing, Jyn realised that their blackout blinds had not been put up. She made her way across the room, yanked up the thick, black paper from the floor, and plastered it roughly with tape against the window pane. Outside, the rain continued to fall, and she groaned loudly, remembering how clumsy and awkward her words had sounded coming out of her mouth. 

She threw herself down onto her bed without getting undressed, and the last thought she had before drifting off to sleep was how she shouldn't have drunk so much tonight. It was very foolish of her….so very foolish…

 

* * *

 

When Jyn woke, it had stopped raining, and sunlight was streaming in through the window; the black curtain had been removed. She sat up in the bed, her head still groggy, and found Shara Bey sitting in front of the mirror. Her friend had obviously just come in; she had the same hair from last night, the same make up. The green dress was gone, however, and it took Jyn a moment to realise what the American was wearing: the dark-blue uniform of the ATA. 

Shara noticed her in the mirror, and said curtly, “Good. You’re up.”

“Had a good time with Kes, didn’t you?” 

Shara’s eyes flashed strangely, but she replied, “It was fine.” She drew out a pin from her hair. “I saw you were having a grand ol’ time with some Irish fellow. I told Cassian Andor to walk you home before Kes and I left.”

The memory of last night rushed back and Jyn grimaced. “Thanks for that.”

“Was it that bad?”

“It wasn’t bad. It was just…strange.” She shook her head, trying to chase away all the absurdities and her less than stellar moments. God, how bloody drunk was she? And the man had been…civil enough too. Attractive, even. But cold. Almost too cold. “Well…at least I wouldn’t have to see him again. I’m bloody grateful for that, trust me.” 

Shara did not reply. She smoothed out the creases in the shoulders of her uniform with a serious, quiet look in her eyes. _Later,_ Jyn promised herself. _I’ll ask her what’s wrong later._ It must be something to do with Kes Dameron, she suspected, like it always was whenever those two met up. But it was too early in the day for a very serious conversation, especially with this bloody hangover she had. 

“Thank you for dragging me along last night,” Jyn found herself telling her friend. 

Shara’s mouth twisted up in amusement. “I thought you hated it.”

“Yes, but I can’t blame you for my own tendency toward self-sabotage. Nor was it your fault I decided to drink an Irishman under the table. And…”

“And what?”

Jyn shrugged, and said quietly, “I forgot how beautiful London looks at night.” 

Shara rolled her eyes. “Do you have to be so incredibly British?”

“And do you have to be so incredibly insensitive?” retorted Jyn, but she let out a chuckle nonetheless. She swung off the bed and came to stand behind Shara, and they both stared into the mirror together. Their contrasting reflections stared back at them just as solemnly. “What’s with the uniform, Bey? We’re not there yet, you know.”

“I know,” said Shara quietly, uncharacteristically so. “I thought I’d just try it on.” 

“Feeling a bit wonky?”

Shara frowned. “Wonky?”

“You always get a little…odd after you meet with Kes.” She had not wanted to say it, but it was getting more and more obvious. 

Shara lapsed into silence for a few seconds. Her dark eyes softened when she whispered softly, “Do you think he’ll be alright?” 

“Kes?”

“Yes.” 

Jyn could not help but remember Kes’ laughing eyes and how very different they were to Cassian Andor’s tired ones. She put a hand on her friend’s shoulder, squeezed it gently. “I don’t know,” she said. 

Shara let out a small, broken laugh. “You’re supposed to say he’s going to be alright.”

“Yes, but…”

“But you can’t, I know.” 

Jyn’s grip tightened, wishing she could give her friend some words of comfort even though she knew she had none. For her, the war didn’t begin this September, but many years ago when she was just a child; when her mother had fallen to the ground with a bullet in her chest, and her father had been taken, lost, killed. She had already had a taste of this war, and the taste was still bitter on her tongue.

“How do I look?” asked Shara, her eyes staring straight into her own in the mirror. 

Jyn smiled. “Fearsome.” 

“You think so?”

“Yes. Definitely fearsome.”

Shara lifted a hand to cover Jyn’s, and in a rather more serious tone than they usually used with each other, said, “Thank you, Erso.” 

Jyn saw her own smile turning a little crooked. “Your welcome, silly.” 

They continued staring into the mirror - Jyn in her askew and slept-in party dress and Shara in her spotless uniform. The two women in the glass looked back at them, unsure but unwavering, as though they were offering their twins their silent approval. Yes, they did look fearsome, Jyn thought, but how incredibly young they seemed. Almost _too_ young. Somehow, the thought made her sad. 

A storm was coming. The young never last long in a storm. 

. 

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying it, but multi-chapter stories are so difficult for me to write and this is no exception! *wails with exhaustion* 
> 
> This chapter is my love letter to London, my favourite city that I miss so much. Kes and Shara's heritages are inspired by the heritages of Oscar Isaac's parents. Now onto the history: 
> 
> \- This chapter takes place in November, 1939. Britain declared war against Germany on September 3, 1939. The British Expeditionary Force (BEF) were dispatched to France right away, with more deployments until their number reached nearly 400,000 by March, 1940. No fighting actually took place until May, 1940. The British troops were assembled along the Belgian-French border during this period of ‘The Phoney War’ and spent most of their time digging field defences. Of course, for some, “dicing” and “whoring” also took place.
> 
> \- The Air Ministry suspected that Britain would suffer night air bombing attacks and came up with the blackout where man-made lights on the ground would be extinguished. Blackout regulations were imposed two days before the war was declared, with preparations beginning as far back as 1937. A limited version of the blackout had already been introduced in 1915 during WWI. The blackout was lifted in April, 1945. Vera Lynn’s popular song, “When The Lights Go On Again”, was inspired by this. 
> 
> \- Blackout protocols included thick black curtains or paint to stop light from showing through windows, and shopkeepers having to find new ways for customers to leave and enter their premises without letting any light out. Street lights were turned off or only partially turned on, pedestrians had to wear white arm bands or gloves, and coats of white paint were applied to steps, curbs and car bumpers. Railways were also blacked out. In 1939, the blackout was so severe that even the red glow from a cigarette was banned, and only car sidelights were allowed, causing the number of people killed on the roads to double.
> 
> \- Air Raid Precautions (ARP) wardens enforced the blackout, making sure that no light escaped from any building. They also issued gas masks, reported and dealt with bombing incidents, as well as directed people toward bomb shelters. “Put that light out!” was one of their common phrases. 
> 
> \- The ATA or the Air Transport Auxiliary ferried military aircraft, performed air ambulance work, and flew service personnel on urgent duty, using pilots who were considered to be unsuitable for the RAF by reason of age, fitness or gender. The ATA began recruiting female pilots on 14 November, 1939, with the first eight women pilots accepted into service on 1 January, 1940. Pilots from 28 countries flew in the ATA, and I will be writing more about them in a future chapter. I obviously skewed the dates a bit here so Shara and Jyn would already be ATA pilots, or ATA pilots in training, by the time they meet the guys. 
> 
> —
> 
> PLEASE leave me your thoughts or questions. Interacting with you guys is always the best thing about writing fanfiction! [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> .
> 
>    
>  _Up Next: "On Such A Full Sea Are We Now Afloat" - in which Cassian, Kay, and Kes try to make their way to Dunkirk. (Hopefully I'll manage to post this the week the film "Dunkirk" comes out.)_


	3. On Such A Full Sea Are We Now Afloat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassian, Kay, and Kes try to make their way to Dunkirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooo much to those who read and reviewed my last chapter. This one, however, I’m even _more_ nervous about; I haven’t written anything like this before. Ever. Dunkirk is a story I’ve been fascinated with for years, and it seems amazing that I’m able to publish this chapter just in time for the release of the film ‘Dunkirk’. (Which stars my fav Cillian Murphy as “The Shivering Soldier”, as well as Harry Styles, if that’s your sort of thing!) I’m going to see it as soon as I can. Can’t wait! 
> 
> **A VERY important note** : many things that happen in this chapter are inspired by real-life events (see end notes). But PLEASE keep in mind that this is _fanfiction_ , at the end of the day. Whatever I write can never, ever do the real events justice. I’m also not a history student or a WWII expert. I’m going to make mistakes and take certain liberties with the history. Therefore, criticism and discussion are welcome, but only if they’re delivered rationally ~~(and perhaps with a sense of humour!)~~
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than that glorious BTS video from ‘The Last Jedi’. So please leave one if you can!

_**Previously:** Jyn and Cassian are people with pretty messed-up past. Through their friends, Shara and Kes, who are (sort of) seeing each other, they meet for the first time in November, 1939. The meeting doesn’t go particularly well. Jyn and Shara are off to become female pilots with the ATA, while Cassian, Kes, and Kay are part of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) who are shipped off to France. _

* * *

 

_The next thing I remember was someone saying, “Come on, chum! Have a cup of tea!” I had a mouthful of tea and then he said, “Do you want to see the white cliffs of Dover?” And there they were, coming up._

**Private Albert Dance,** Rifle Brigade

 

* * *

 

**28 May, 1940**

**Wormhoudt, France**

 

There were stars tonight. Tiny, twinkling jewels that made the bleakness seemed almost beautiful. Clouds dotted across the darkness pale as milk, while a sliver of moon hung low in the sky as if it were a teardrop. It was not yet dawn. 

Cassian Andor was waiting for dawn. 

“You should be asleep,” a voice rang out from behind him.

Cassian turned and looked up from his place in the trench to see his best friend James Kay standing there in the dark. Kay was a tall man, blond with sharp blue eyes, his frame as slim as a blade. In his hand was a chinked cup, brimming with steaming hot tea. A rifle slung over his left shoulder. The cut he had received from yesterday’s battle was still visible on his left cheek, and it gave his chiselled cheekbones an even more hardened look in the dark.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cassian said. 

“You never can.” Kay had a habit of stating the obvious. He dropped down onto the earth beside Cassian, his every movement as graceful as a cat’s. “I’d tell you that it’s a problem but I already know you wouldn’t care.” 

“It’s a habit now, Kay. You get used to your habits.”

“Even unhealthy ones?”

“Especially those. Are you here just to nag?” Cassian asked, but he was not really that annoyed. 

“Unfortunately no,” Kay answered regretfully. “As it happens, I think your horrid habit is rubbing off on me. I can’t seem to sleep either.” 

“How are the men?” 

“Sleeping.” Kay paused for a moment, and then announced, “I have news.”

Cassian relaxed his grip on his own rifle. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “And how did you come by this news?” 

“Perfectly legitimately. I listened in on the Major’s correspondents, of course.” 

“Good man.” 

Kay shrugged. “I know you’ll want to hear this,” he said. “It is about our order.” 

“What about our order?” asked Cassian, his voice blank.

It was only two days ago when Cassian and his unit were posted here at Wormhoudt - a town situated between Bergues and Cassel - with ‘the order’.A few rifles, anti-tank guns, and smoke bombs were the only weapons they were given. Yesterday, the German infantry had come over the hill and their unit had battled them back. But tomorrow they would come again, and then again the day after, until everyone on the British side was dead or captured.

Kay recited the order harshly, “ _Hold at all cost. Fight to the last man and the last round._ ” There was a grim slant to his mouth. “Well, I’ve discovered what we are holding _for._ General Gort has finally pulled the plug; the BEF are pulling out of France. The Belgians are surrendering, and the Jerries now have us trapped with our backs to the ocean.” 

Cassian nodded. “We know this already.” They had heard the confirmation on the wireless only a few days ago.

Kay smirked. “Yes, but that’s not all there is. They’re trying to evacuate us out. As many men as they can, back across the channel. They have a plan, Gort and Churchill and all the rest. Well, a plan… _of sorts_. We’ll see how well it actually works once things are put into motion.” 

Cassian stared at his friend. “Where is the evacuation point going to be?” 

“Dunkirk.” 

He sucked in a sharp breath, the realisation coming to him at last. “And we’re the rearguard. We are to beat the Germans back as best we can so that our men can make their escape.” 

Kay nodded stiffly. “Correct.” 

It should scare him more, the prospect of dying. But somehow it did not, and he did not think he wanted to know what that meant. He looked across the field over to the hill beyond, and he wondered if the Germans on the other side felt the same. 

Kay took a sip of tea. His rifle was now lying next to him on the ground. “I suppose it is quite obvious. The chances of us surviving are - ”

“Slim.”

“ _Very_ slim.”

“Well, I’ve had worse odds.” It was true. Almost. “They’re coming over again tomorrow.”

Kay sighed. “I know. And we’re running out of smoke bombs to throw at them. They must be quaking in their boots.” 

“Will they bring tanks? Did the Major manage to get any intel on that, at least?” 

The Germans had halted their tanks for three days now. No one quite knew why. If those tanks had continued to advance, the entire BEF would have been crushed by now. _Perhaps the bastard is not as clever as he thinks_ , Cassian thought. _Or perhaps he is toying with us, like how a dog toys with his food before he eats…_

Kay shook his head. “I don’t know. I expect we shall find out tomorrow.” 

_When dawn comes._ Cassian lit a cigarette as the silence sat heavy on them both. Eventually he said, “Kay, we’ve known each other a long time. I never once - ”

“Hey, ho, what’s this?” came a shout. It was Kes Dameron, grinning brightly as he swung down into the trench beside Cassian. The mongrel he had named Garret - a brown little dog he’d found on the side of the road many months ago - was at his heels. The animal immediately came to lick Cassian’s hand, its tail wagging enthusiastically. Kay stared at Dameron with annoyance, but the newcomer looked unbothered. “You’re drinking tea in the trench, Kay? Why, you posh bastard!” 

“I don’t see how drinking _tea_ \- ”

Dameron chuckled. “Calm yourself, mate, I’m just taking the mick.” 

Kay scowled. “I don’t suppose you can sleep either, Dameron.”

“Oh, I’ve slept enough these past six months. Now that there’s real fighting going on…sleeping is a waste of time.” Dameron put out a hand and Garrett came running to him, as excited as a child. “What were you lot going on about before you were so rudely interrupted by yours truly?” 

“Fighting,” replied Cassian. 

“Ah.” Dameron too had his own souvenir from yesterday’s battle: a horrific gash in his right arm that was now wrapped in bandage. For someone who had never seen combat before, Cassian thought he had handled himself remarkably well. “Do you think we’ll survive tomorrow?”

“Kay thinks we’re not going to.” 

“Ever the optimist.” Dameron chortled.

Kay bristled. “If they bring tanks - ”

“We’ll use our anti-tank guns. That’s what they’re for,” said Dameron, scratching Garrett behind the ear. His easy smile was evident on his face as he turned to look at his friends. “Honestly, Kay, I don't want to go into battle thinking I’m fucking doomed. Doesn’t that make it worse?” 

“One drop of realism is always better than a full pint of delusion.” 

Dameron’s smile turned into one of fondness. “Now you sound like Shara.” 

Kay did not seem to understand. “Shara?”

“A bird I’m seeing.” He stared at Kay, incredulous. “How come you don’t know who she is? Who do you think I keep writing to every other day?” 

Kay shrugged. “Your mother?” 

Dameron rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows about Shara. Even Andor has met her.”

Kay turned his accusatory glare to Cassian. “You have? Where was I?”

“You were sick with the flu.”

“Was I? I don’t recall!”

“Yes, you were,” said Cassian, sighing. “It was our last day off in London and you couldn’t get out of bed because you were too sick to move.”

“I don’t remember ever being _that_ ill. How is it possible that - ”

“Do you know what the two of you sound like?” Dameron grinned. “Like an old married couple.” 

“Piss off, Dameron.” Kay glared. “And this _woman_ of yours…this… _Shauna_ \- ”

“ _Shara_. She’s American.” 

Kay sneered. “For goodness’ sake, Dameron.”

“She’s alright, you know. A pilot. Even Andor likes her.” 

Kay’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at Cassian. “You do?”

“I only met her once,” Cassian said quickly. Only once, and it was not the American who had made an impression on him that night.

“You told me you thought she was nice,” Dameron reminded him. 

“She was. I think.” 

Dameron’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps your attention was on someone else that night.” 

“Who?” Kay asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

“Shara brought a friend,” Dameron explained. “A pilot who’s in the ATA with her. Jyn Erso. A bloody handful, but the best kind.” 

“Jyn Erso?” Kay could not look anymore disapproving if he tried. “And you enjoyed the company of this… _Jyn Erso_ , Cassian?”

Cassian sighed wearily. This was not the conversation he wanted to have at all. “Jyn Erso was drunk and annoying and angry, so no, I did not enjoy her company.” 

Dameron snorted. “You walked her home.”

“Because you and Shara asked me to.”

“You’ve never told me this before, Andor, but did anything happen?”

“Of course not. And I’d appreciate it if we could drop the blasted subject!”

Kay’s look of contempt said he would rather not, but to Cassian’s immense relief, Dameron was the one who spoke. “You know, half the time, I don’t understand how we’re friends.”

“We’re not friends,” Kay corrected in a tight voice, but it only made Dameron grin even wider. 

“See? I’d miss this.”

“I thought you said we’re going to survive.” 

“I didn’t say we’re _going_ to survive, I just said I _intend_ to.” Dameron picked up a tiny branch and threw it away for Garrett to run and catch. “I intend to survive the Jerries’ attack tomorrow. I intend to return home and see London again. To eat proper Cuban food and not this ghastly stuff they keep giving us. Maybe take Garrett to a park…” 

The dream was a nice one, thought Cassian, but from the way Kay’s eyes hardened, he knew his best friend did not share his view. He lit another cigarette as Kay emptied the rest of his tea into the dirt. 

They all watched as the mongrel came running back to Dameron with the stick clutched between his sharp teeth. Dameron gave him a compliment in Spanish before throwing the stick away again. As Cassian watched Garrett chase after it, he thought that the dog might be the only creature in this damned town who did not care one whit about the shadows looming up beyond the hill. 

_Perhaps I’ve become soft…and I don’t want to die after all._

His rifle had turned cold by the time he touched it again. 

 

* * *

 

The Germans came at dawn, but so did the rain. 

It was not the soft rain Cassian remembered from his well-worn memory, with its touch as gentle as a lover’s caress. The rain that came was ferocious and cruel, flooding and destroying every thing in its path, as though the sky had had its heart ripped from its chest and all the blood had come pouring out. 

“Tanks,” Kay told him grimly. His friend was huddled beside him in the trench, his rifle at the ready. 

Once again, Kay had stated the obvious; Cassian could already see the monstrosities coming toward them through the rain. The mud began caking up its giant wheels as they rolled and rolled.  Their mechanical groans were swallowed up by the wind.

Cassian shook the water out of his eyes. “Bring the guns.”

Kay roared the order for the rest of their unit. Men scurried, fell in the mud, and scrambled through the mire to get their hands on the items in question. Faintly, Garrett’s barks could be heard above the sound of thunder. 

“Men!” Kay shouted. “Aim! FIRE!” 

And on and on it went, as never ending as the storm. The Germans kept trying to drive the tanks forward, and Cassian and his men kept firing back with their meagre supply of anti-tank guns. The sound of bullets rang as loud as the drumming of the rain upon the earth. The ground beneath them had begun to turn into a river. They stood ankle-deep in the mud, soaked to the bone as wave upon wave of bodies and machines kept coming at them. Far away, someone in their right column let out a blood-curling scream. Then - _BOOM!_

“We can’t hold forever!” Kay shouted at Cassian. “We’ve lost the right flank!” 

He found himself nodding. He was oddly calm. “We beat them back,” he told his friend. Then he raised his voice and shouted the same words down the column. He heard a cheer that sounded like Dameron’s rising up in answer. 

_A friend,_ Cassian thought vaguely. _A friend. Still alive._

He did not know much time had passed until the tanks finally stopped rolling forward. The marshy ground seemed to have done its part in hindering their progress, and he supposed the anti-tank guns must have done their work. However, everyone on their side were too tired to cheer, and there was no time to rest before someone to their left screeched out, “ _They’re coming!_ ” 

German soldiers were trudging down from the opposite hill, but they were only black, blurry shapes to Cassian’s eyes. A lad to his right shouted a curse in panic and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. Then - _BANG -_ he was nothing but a dead man at Cassian’s feet, a stray bullet having sliced through his throat. 

Kay was yelling again. “RIFLES!” 

It was more like playing Russian roulette in a burning building, Cassian thought to himself. He could hardly see; he had no way of knowing if there was a bullet shooting toward him or whether his own bullet had found a target. His entire world had now shrunk down to two simple, but awful acts: fire and reload, fire and reload, fire and reload. There was blood on his hands, but he did not know whose it was. The only sounds he could hear were men dying all around him, bullets flying from guns, the rain pouring down vengefully. It could have been days, months, years, he could not tell. 

_It will never end. God help me, this will never end._

But it _did_ end. Sometime in the afternoon, the Germans called a halt. And when the coast was clear, Cassian tossed away his gun and stood up. He immediately noticed that he was among the only few who could.

Kay was the one nearest to him, the only one nearest to him that was still alive. There was a lost, horrible look in his friend’s eyes, and dread cut through Cassian’s heart like a knife. He heard himself ask in a hollow voice, “Where’s Dameron?” 

They found Garrett first. The mongrel was lying in a pool of mud and blood, his eyes wide open and his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Someone had shot him, and more than once too, judging by the numerous horrific wounds in his tiny body. A few yards away from the corpse was Dameron. 

Cassian crouched down beside his friend. “Are you hurt?”

But Dameron could only nod and point down. His right leg was bent grotesquely at the ankle, as though some giant monster had tried to yank it out of its socket. One look at it was enough to tell Cassian that it was broken. 

Dameron fisted a weak hand into Cassian’s collar and yanked his face down to his. “I…I can’t get up.” There was no easy smile now, no twinkle in his brown eyes. His face was white as a sheet. “It…it hurts like a motherfucker.” 

“We’ll…we’ll get you some help.” 

Kay came to stand beside the two of them, but did not say anything. His lips were pursed together, his whole posture as rigid as a statue’s. Even Cassian could not read him.

Dameron winced. “No…I don’t…”

“We found Garrett,” Cassian told him. 

Dameron’s eyes clouded over with more pain. “Some…some bastard got him. I…I don’t know…ours or theirs…”

“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”

“I intend to survive this, remember?”

“You’re doing a bloody shoddy job of it right now, you know that?” 

“Yeah…well…I…”

“Sir!” A young soldier came running at them out of the darkness. As he saluted them, Kay put out an arm and stopped him in his tracks. 

“What is it, lad?” Kay demanded. 

The lad looked scared out of his wits and his voice shook tremulously above the rain. “The Major, sir. He’s sent word. The position is almost lost. The Germans have the town surrounded and our unit on the west side can’t hold any longer. There’s been a new order, sir.” His eyes flickered from Kay’s face to Cassian’s. “Every man for himself, he says.”

The lad’s words were met by eerie silence from Cassian, Kay and Kes, but they were not the only ones who had heard. A crowd had begun to form around them; Cassian could see old Mick whose right arm was now in a make-shift sling, the Scouse lad Jimmy with his puppy-dog eyes, Harry who was leaning against his rifle, Jack with the lazy eye, Frank with his scarred face. A few more whose names he did not know rounded up the group. Some were trying to move their injured friends out of the rain into any sort of shelter. Some were simply sitting on the ground, too exhausted to move. There was a young man - brown-haired and solemn dead eyes - who was shell-shocked. He stood not far from Dameron, as still as stone and staring into nothing. 

“That settles it, then,” said old Mick. “We’re fucked.”

Jack shook his head. “Not if we surrender.”

“Come off it, man! We’re not _surrendering!_ ” piped up Jimmy, his face reddening. 

“What would you have us do then, you wanker? Die?” 

“I didn’t say - ”

“We must get to higher ground,” said another solider who Cassian did not know by name. 

Harry scoffed. “Hard to find higher ground than this, mate.”

“Well, I don’t plan on dying in the mud.” 

“Where do you prefer to die, then? In a bloody castle?”

The argument turned more heated then, and before long, almost every man had chimed in with his opinion. The only ones who had remained silent were those who were too injured to speak, the shell-shocked lad, and Cassian himself. Kay, too, had not uttered a word, and while the conversation raged on around them, the blond man eventually crouched down next to Dameron. His eyes, however, sought out Cassian’s. 

“So…what’s the plan?”

Cassian glanced around before he answered in a low voice. “We’re not surrendering. That’s obvious.” 

Dameron’s face scrunched up with both pain and curiosity. “Why not?”

“We’re not surrendering because we don’t know _who_ we’re surrendering to.” He had learnt this lesson a long time ago back in Mexico: in war, people cannot be trusted no matter how noble their intentions might be. His father’s face seemed to appear before him, the old man’s eyes full of foreboding. “If it’s the Wehrmacht we’re surrendering to, we might have a chance of making out of this war alive, but if it’s the SS…” 

“Then things can get a little hairy.” 

“Yes, and that’s putting it mildly.”

Kay’s piercing blue eyes turned hard. “What do we do, then? Dameron can’t even move an inch without bringing the entire German army down upon us.” 

“Careful, mate!” Dameron groaned through gritted teeth. 

Cassian gave his friend a long, searching look. “If I hold you up, can you hop along on one leg?” 

Kay stared at Cassian, aghast. Dameron, however, considered the question seriously for a moment.

“If you hold me up, then…maybe. What are you thinking of?” 

“We’re going to fight our way out. I’ll give you a gun. All you have to do is shoot.”

“And hobble,” Kay remarked darkly. “Cassian, this is a rubbish idea. The chances of us surviving are - ”

“Slim, I know.” He knew his friend meant well, but he had no time for Kay’s by-the-book cautiousness at the moment. “We’ll gather as many men as we can. Those who don’t want to surrender can come with us. We’ll use the rain for protection, and fight through the German line. Smoke bombs, rifles, bayonets. Everything we’ve got.” 

“Dameron might not make it,” said Kay. 

“Then I won’t make it,” Dameron said bluntly, but Kay ignored him and turned to Cassian instead. His eyes were as pleading as Kay’s eyes could ever be. 

“Cassian, this is folly. Every man for himself does not mean every man has to die. We’re not going to make it a _yard_ out of this town. And if we did, where would we even go?” 

Cassian returned his friend’s gaze, surprised. “Why, we go to the sea, of course,” he answered. “We go to Dunkirk.”

 

* * *

 

Cassian saw the boy looming up before him through the rain. 

The boy - _why must they always be boys?_ \- was only a frightened little thing, all blond hair, small beady eyes, sharp features. Cassian felt pity surged through him for one brief moment, but then he drove his bayonet through the boy’s chest, right above where the heart was. He did not wait to see if the boy died quietly or loudly. He scrambled over the lad’s body and fought on, bullet after bullet, cut after cut, with Dameron’s arm around his shoulder as he dragged his injured friend along. The Germans had not expected them, all thirty or so of them. The alarm must have been raised, but the heavy rain had quelled all that. It was now just chaos, commotion, scrambling tooth-and-nail through the muddy terrains. 

A few moments later, when they were afforded a bit of respite, Cassian managed to gasp, “You alright?”

“Still alive so far, mate,” Dameron gasped back. 

“You’ll tell me, right, if - ”

“If I decided to drop dead?” In the grim darkness there was a ghost of a smile on Dameron’s lips. “Come to think of it, I might after all. Just so my last words could come back and haunt you for the rest of your sodding life.” 

“I’m glad that’s all you want, Dameron. I never thought I’d - ” 

“Get down!” It was Kay, shouting suddenly from their left. “Get down NOW!” 

They threw themselves onto the ground immediately just as the sound of machine guns rang out overhead. Cassian could see from the way Dameron’s face was twisting that the impact had put him in more pain, but his friend did not let out a sound. Wordlessly, they began to crawl. Then suddenly a hand grabbed Cassian by the collar and yanked them along faster. It was Kay, he realised, come to drag them from the mouth of hell with fresh blood on his cheeks.

Cassian yelled, “Kay, where are the others?”

“This is _not -_ ”

Whatever it was or wasn’t, Cassian never found out. Suddenly, the sound of machine guns ceased entirely. A high, _whooshing_ noise that Cassian knew all too well, but had not expected to hear rang out in its place. It cut through the air as sharp as a sword through paper. _Sniper shots,_ he realised with a jolt. _Sniper shots!_

Kay looked back at him, dumbfounded, but he found himself smiling even though his entire body ached and ached. He saw the enemies scattering before them, some shot down, some jumping into the nearby rushes, some even fleeing for their lives. 

“The Worcester Yeomanry,” Cassian said through clenched teeth. He had forgotten. The Worcester Yeomanry were stationed on the south side of town, and must have seen them making a break for it and decided to lend a helping hand. “God bless them,” he muttered. _God save them._

And so they crawled and crawled and crawled. They crawled over dead bodies of friends and foes, through mud, through rivers, through wet grass and sharp thorn bushes. They crawled until it felt as though they could crawl no more. Until finally the sound of gunshots fell away, lost to the thundering of the rain, and they were now among the thick leaves and barks of the forest. Kay, who was at the head of their little company, called a halt and stood up. They could see nothing ahead of them but darkness. 

Cassian struggled to his feet, and pulled his friend close to him so his voice could be heard above the storm. “Where are the others?” 

Kay shook his head sorrowfully; he did not know. 

“Dameron?” Cassian dropped to his knees once more beside his friend. All the colour had gone out of Dameron’s face, and it seemed as though his leg was hurting too much for him to speak. But he was still alive and conscious. _Think, Andor, think!_

“We must keep moving, Cassian,” Kay told him. “The Germans will catch up with us for certain if we don’t keep going.” 

“You’re right, but we’ll have to - ”

Suddenly, through the trees, a figure came stumbling straight for them. The figure collided with Cassian and fell to the ground in a heap as if it were made out of nothing but crumbling bones. With shaking hands, Cassian turned him over. It was the shell-shocked lad, he recognised immediately. The youth who had stood by as the rest of them argued back at the town, unable to move or speak. 

He heard Kay gasp in shock. “Bloody hell, how did he - ”

“Help me get him up.” 

Kay grabbed the lad by the armpits and hoisted him up until he was sitting hunched over himself like a rag doll. His eyes were half-closed, his right hand pressed against his side. Cassian pushed the hand away and found blood, black as ink, seeping from the lad’s side. Somebody - probably the lad himself - had the present of mind to wrap a make-shift bandage around it. It was a strip of cloth looked to have been torn from a sleeve, but it was soaked through now, almost useless. And when Cassian put a hand to the lad’s forehead, he felt the skin burning beneath his touch. 

“Kay, I’m going to carry him.” 

“Carry him?” Kay’s eyes were wide saucers in the dark. “Cassian, Dameron alone is bad enough. Another injured man will slow us down even more. And look at him! Look at the lad! He _will_ die whether we help him or not!” 

“I’m going to carry him, Kay. You’re going to carry Dameron.”

“Cassian - ”

“Kay, just do what I say.” 

He would be a liar if he said that Kay’s doubt did not make him afraid, but he quickly smothered down the fear; it had become easier to do that over the years. When they continued walking once more, Dameron was on Kay’s back and the bleeding lad was on Cassian’s. _Have I doomed us all with my guilt?_ he thought fleetingly, but staggered on. 

The rain continued pouring down from the sky as unrelenting as ever. The pitch-darkness also did nothing to help matters. By now, Cassian had been soaked to the bone for what felt like years. _I will never be dry again,_ he thought. His boots were filled with mud, every layer of his clothing heavy and cold like icy fingers pinching his skin. Forever whipping and lashing at their faces was the wind. The howling, howling wind. The sea had never felt more like a dream, and the weight on his back made every step he took a torture.

Strangely, he found his mind straying to Jyn Erso, the woman he had met only once one night in London. He had tried not to think of her much; what good would it do? But perhaps exhaustion worked like intoxication, because now he was allowing himself to dwell on her when he couldn’t before. He could not help but recall how fiery her eyes had shone and how warm she seemed, so very different from the cold he felt now. The rain that night had been different too. How he had wanted to be the one to brush those raindrops away after they had touched her skin… 

_But I am not a man who is meant for dreams,_ he remembered. 

He wondered if he would ever see her again, and if he did, would she even remember him? 

The rain finally stopped when dawn came. Cassian had no notion of how long they had been walking, and it was only when the skies began turning red and pink did they pause for a short break. The lad on his back had fallen into a fevered-sleep, and his blood had soaked through the back of Cassian’s jacket. Dameron’s face was simply blank, as though the pain had struck him unconscious. They had no dry bandages for changing and no food to eat. All they could manage were a few hurried gulps of water from a nearby stream. There, Cassian spotted a German leaflet in the mud. It had been dropped from the skies by the Luftwaffe; hundreds of them scattered across the French countryside. The faded black letters seemed to scream at him when he looked at them: “BRITISH SOLDIERS! YOU ARE ENCIRCLED! WHY DO YOU FIGHT FURTHER? PUT DOWN YOUR ARMS!” Kay, who was drinking next to him, saw it too, and stomped on it for good measure before they started out again. 

Now that the sun had risen, the world began to wake with them. As they trudged on through fields, forest, and mud, they saw men, women and children taking to the roads. There were farmers, merchants, families, many with packs on their backs or huge bags in their arms. Only a few of them bothered to drag along a cart or a wagon; they seemed to understand that too much luggage would slow them down. British and French soldiers walked among them. Some had rifle slung over their shoulders, some had nothing but the clothes on their backs, but everyone had a drawn, haggard look, as though they had not eaten for days. When Cassian looked at their faces, he saw nothing behind their eyes. And he could not help but wonder if he was seeing his _own_ face just then, or the faces of his friends. 

It was near noon when they came upon the ambulance by the road. One of its wheels had gotten stuck in the mud. A nurse in the uniform of the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps was standing next to it. She had tried to push the vehicle out of the ditch by herself; there was mud on the front of her white apron and her sleeves were rolled up. She waved them over when she caught side of them coming down the lonely, rugged path. 

“I have injured soldiers in the back,” she told them. “We’re trying to get to Dunkirk like everyone else. Please - can you help us?” She took one look at the lad on Cassian’s back. “Your friend…he’s hurt.”

“He’s not our friend,” said Kay sharply. He lowered Dameron down on the ground clumsily. “But, yes, he is hurt.”

“His bandage needs changing. We have loads of them in the back.” She pointed to the ambulance. She was a haughty-looking young woman, her short red hair all flames. “Please, help us, and you can ride with us all the way to the sea. We have room.”

Kay looked to Cassian, who immediately nodded. “Alright. Let’s get on with it, then.” 

Half an hour later, the four of them were squeezed into the back of the ambulance with three other injured soldiers. The whole vehicle smelled of blood, sweat, and infection, but none of them complained; it felt like heaven to sit down again. The nurse was behind the wheel, eyes locked ahead, giving Cassian instructions on how to change the young lad’s bandage as they sped along slowly through the countryside. Cassian was only half-listening to her; he already knew how to change bandages. He touched the lad’s forehead again. 

“He’s burning up,” he whispered to Kay, who only nodded grimly. Dameron, however, lifted his tired eyes and gave the lad a long, sad look. 

“I told you,” muttered Kay. “He’s not going to live very long.”

And Kay was right, as he usually was. The sun was low in the sky when the lad finally opened his eyes. Blue eyes, soft and wet and scared. They found Cassian’s brown ones, and a faint light seemed to flicker in them for a brief moment. 

“Sir…is this…is this the end of the world?”

Cassian had not fallen asleep like the others, but Kay’s head was resting against his shoulder so he tried to move as little as possible when he reached out to take the lad’s hand.

“No, this is not the end of the world,” Cassian answered. He forced himself to smile. “We’re in France, mate. Have you forgotten?”

The lad’s hand fell to the wound at his side. His entire face contorted with pain. “I don’t…I don’t remember. Please…sir…” He moved his shaking hand inside his jacket pocket and drew out a small stack of letters, tied together with a string. The edges of the papers were wet and frayed and torn. “Here…” He pushed them into Cassian’s hands. “They’re all I have….”

Cassian glanced down and saw an address scribbled on the top envelope in neat, tidy handwriting. 

He made himself smile at the lad again. “Don’t worry. I’ll deliver them for you.”

But he did not think the lad heard him; the boy was burning up so badly and his eyes had begun to close again.

“Please tell my brother, sir…tell Davits…tell him I’m sorry.” 

Cassian did not understand. “Why are you sorry?” 

“I’m sorry…sorry I’m not brave enough…tell Davits…tell him I want to be brave…”

Then the lad’s eyes closed completely, and this time, they did not open again. 

They did not have the time nor the shovels to bury him. They could only leave him on the side of the road next to the bodies of so many others. He had wanted to be brave, Cassian thought, but the lad had been scared out of his wits. He remembered how shell-shocked the lad had been after the attack at Wormhoudt; the fact that he had managed to slip through the German lines at all was a miracle. _Why must they always be boys?_

Cassian rubbed his forehead wearily as he stowed those letters inside his own pocket. Kay looked at him with worry in his eyes when he got into the ambulance again.

“Cassian, you did all you could,” Kay said quietly, and not unkindly. But Dameron simply stared, and somehow that was worse.

Cassian did not speak again for the rest of the ride. 

 

* * *

 

They first glimpsed Dunkirk from afar, a great giant ball of fire that seemed to have swallowed up the horizon. The columns of smoke rose as high as the clouds, while the flames grasped up at the sky as if they were giant fingers intent on pulling down the sun. 

The nurse pushed her red hair away from her sweaty forehead. There was a grim, hard look in her eyes as she removed the cigarette from her lips. “I assume that’s Dunkirk.” 

Kay moved forward so he could stare out the windscreen with Cassian. Disbelief was written across his face. “And we’re supposed to go into _that?_ ” 

_Yes, and don’t look back,_ a voice seemed to whisper. 

And for one dreadful moment, Cassian thought he was looking at another village from a lifetime ago. He thought he smelled the once familiar scent of burnt grass, melting flesh, sweat and blood when his father had grabbed him by the neck and pushed him down to the ground. Dirt had gone into his eyes, he remembered, blinding him just as much as the smoke did. “Stay low,” his father had hissed with death in his eyes. “Then run for the river, and don’t look back. _Don’t look back._ ” 

But then he shook his head, blinked, and the memory disappeared. 

The nurse exhaled smoke. The singular white column contrasted greatly with the black ones billowing from the town ahead. “We’re running out of time,” she said. 

They drove on. Closer and closer they came to the ball of fire. When their tyres struck sand, the nurse pulled the ambulance to a stop. Before them stretched miles upon miles of beach and ocean, a country of never ending madness. Even from where they were, they could see bodies littering the sand and the shallows of the water. The entire place stank of death. 

Cassian and Kay helped carry the injured soldiers out of the ambulance and over to the nearby group of Royal Army nurses; there were stretchers at the ready, and more wounded men who were being tended to. Afterward, they gave their thanks to the red-haired nurse who had driven them, and together with Dameron, made their way closer to the sea. Dameron had found a crutch in the ambulance so he no longer needed to be carried, but he kept an arm around Cassian’s shoulders for balance. The pain was still too great, however, and he did not talk much. 

_Is this the end of the world?_ the dead lad had asked Cassian before he died. The countryside hadn’t been, Cassian thought, but this place…this place might just be. The more they walked, the bleaker things seemed. Cars and tanks were burning everywhere. Mountains of weapons were going up in flames. All around them, men were crying, laughing, talking, screaming, dying. Everyone of them was too exhausted to be entirely conscious; some were even sleeping as they stood. As they walked, they saw one man going mad, and he ran screaming into the ocean, hoping to drown himself in the waves. It took three others to wrestle him back ashore. 

_Don’t look back,_ Cassian repeated to himself for what felt like the hundredth time. _Don’t you look back._

They could do nothing but wait. Wait for ships to come across the sea. For rescue. For hope. Cassian and his friends joined the men queuing up on the beach, and the three of them shared a canteen of water and a pack of biscuits that Kay had found in a smashed-up lorry. Often enough, they saw Messerschmitts flying overhead like vultures with giant dark wings. Whenever a bomb was dropped, every man on the beach fled their positions, scrambling to find shelter. Only after the planes had disappeared again did those who were still alive came stumbling back to claim their places in line. The men waiting in the shallows of the water had no such luxury; the water could not lessen the impact of the explosions as well as the sand could. “Where the bloody hell is the RAF?” one solider asked mournfully, but no one could answer him. 

Day turned to night, then to day, and then to night again, until all the hours melted together as one. And still the line kept dragging along, like a great giant beast crawling on its belly. Inch by inch they came closer and closer to the shimmering water and the mole - a long stone jetty at the mouth of the port where the ships, boats, and barges came to dock by light of the moon. Kay kept dozing off, but Cassian could not bring himself to sleep during the entire first day. Dameron too was wide awake. Once, after a shelling, the man made a rare joke about the Luftwaffe having terrible aim, and Cassian started laughing even though he did not find the joke particularly funny. Both of his friends chuckled along with him, but afterward, they all fell into a long, depressed silence. _We are going insane with hunger,_ Cassian thought numbly.

He finally fell asleep when the half-moon was high up in the sky on the second night. He did not dream often, but tonight he did. He dreamed that he was a child again, a helpless boy with scratches on his knees and palms. He was running as fast his little legs could carry him. Hot tears streamed down his face. Behind him the village burned, and he could hear his father screaming from far away. _Run for the river. Don’t look back. Don’t look back._

Then suddenly he was no longer a boy, but a man grown. And this was another dream he had dreamt before. He was walking through the streets of London as he did on the night he had met Jyn Erso. He was back at Trafalgar Square; before him Nelson’s Column rose up into the dark sky. The marble lions studied him with their black empty eyes while the rain fell as it always did, its touch on his face so loving and sad. Ahead of him walked a woman, but her face was shrouded in shadows. And no matter how loud he called out for her, she never turned….

_Run for the river. Don’t look back._

Then the rain turned into blood, huge splatters of red that stuck to his clothes and burned his skin as if they were acid. The woman ahead was disappearing, fading. He opened his mouth to scream, to call her back, but no sound came…

And this was the moment he woke. Someone was shaking him awake roughly, hurriedly. When he had scrambled to his feet, he discovered that he was now at the end of the mole. How or when he had gotten there, he could not have said. A small ship floated before him in the dark. 

_This is still a dream,_ he thought. But the captain of the ship seemed real enough. A large man with a bushy beard, his eyes were kind even in the dark. 

“Come now, lad,” the captain said to him, almost gently. “We’re taking you home.”

Afterward, Cassian could not recall how he and his friends managed to get into the ship. All he knew was that not long after, they were sailing away from Dunkirk and into the great vast darkness. The sailors on board gave all the soldiers blankets to cover themselves with, and they huddled together, too tired to feel fortunate. They were not yet safe, Cassian knew; German U-boats were lurking somewhere close by. In the far distance, another ship had just been sunk, its passengers screaming as they fell into the depths below. A part of him did feel frightened, but the fear was not enough to keep him awake. His head felt too dizzy, his eyelids too heavy. Sleep was taking over, wrestling him to the ground as if he were a helpless infant. _I’m willing to die so long as they do not wake me before I go,_ was the last waking thought he had. 

The feel of warm sunlight on his face finally woke him. The ship was still rocking along in the rough waves, but the sky was now slashed with flashes of pink, red, and orange. When he turned around, he saw that Dunkirk had disappeared into the horizon. _Can it be? Have we made it out alive?_ He looked about him and could not find Kay, but Dameron was curled up beside him on the deck, shaking slightly beneath his blanket. Some of the men had begun to wake; a few were walking around, others sitting up with cups of drink in their hands. When a sailor noticed that Cassian had woken, he too got a cup of tea, as well as two very dry biscuits. He nibbled on one, and kept the other for Dameron.

He was licking the crumbs off his fingertips when his friend opened his eyes. 

“Are we alive?” Dameron croaked. His face was still dead-white, like a corpse’s. He struggled into a sitting position, his broken leg stretched out before him like an awful, crooked thing.

“Miraculously, yes,” answered Cassian. He offered Dameron the biscuit. “Here. Eat. You’ll need your strength.” 

“Where’s Kay?”

“God knows.” 

Dameron bit carefully into his biscuit. “I thought…I thought we were finished.”

“So did I.”

A few moments passed in silence as Dameron ate the biscuit and Cassian drank his tea. The only sound was the crashing of the waves against the side of the ship. Then suddenly, Dameron spoke. “I lied.”

“You…lied?”

“Back at Wormhoudt…when I said I wanted to go home so I could see London again…so I could walk Garrett in a proper park.” His smile was not carefree anymore, but bitter. There was something different in his eyes. “I lied, Andor.” 

_Don’t we all? All the time?_ “What’s the truth, then?” he asked. 

“I want to get married,” Dameron replied. There was no hint of humour in his tones. Just honesty. “I want to get married. White dress for the bride, flowers, rings, a church…the whole lot. That is…if Shara will have me.” He turned to look at Cassian, and attempted his old easy smile. “And now you’re looking at me like I’m bloody insane. Like I’m nothing but a naive little boy.”

“I often forget that you’re not.” 

“Has the world always been this heavy on your shoulders, Andor?”

“Not as heavy as you, Dameron.”

His friend let out a laugh. “You won’t ever let this one go, will you?”

Somehow, he found it within himself to smile. “No, I won’t,” he answered. 

He went looking for Kay after Dameron had gone back to sleep, and found him at the stern. The blond man was staring out at sea, at the burning town that had now disappeared from sight. There was a serious, far-away look in his sharp blue eyes, and no cup of tea was in sight. He was smoking a cigarette instead.

“When did you wake?” Cassian asked in way of greeting. 

Kay did not look at him. “A little before dawn.” 

“Kay - ” 

“I’m not angry with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Cassian moved to stand next to his best friend, and stared with him out at the dark-blue, rippling waves. They could always read each other like a book. 

“Kay, I know sometimes I ask you to do things you don’t want to do.”

Kay sneered. “Like carry along a dying stranger. Like taking on the German army with nothing but a few guns and rusted bayonets.”

Kay’s words twisted inside him painfully, and he found himself thinking of their unit, those who had decided to surrender, and those who were separated from him by the storm as they fought their way out together. Were they alive? Were they now in boats and ships like him, fortunate enough to be sailing back home? Or were they as dead as the lad he had left on the side of the road? He had no way of knowing. Those letters seemed to burn a hole in his pocket even now.

“I never want you to feel that you can’t say no,” he told his friend quietly.

Kay looked thoughtful. The cigarette was at his lips, but he did not smoke it. “I know. But ever since we met, I always do everything you tell me to do anyway, God help us all. I never seem to understand why.”

“I don’t either.” He sighed. “Maybe we are so bloody different that it makes no matter.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Kay frowned. “All I know is that I trust you. Don’t take it for granted.” 

“I won’t.”

_I never keep my promises,_ Cassian thought, _but perhaps I can keep this one. Let me keep this one._ And so they stood together, and watched the sun climb up the sky. 

When the shout came, it came from the bow, shrill and excited, followed by jubilant cheers that rang up and down the ship like church bells on Christmas morning. “Blighty! Blighty! Blighty, up ahead!” 

Cassian could not have said how they found the energy or the inclination to care, but before he knew it, they were both moving. They pressed past sailors handing out food and drink, past men who were still asleep, and shouldered through soldiers who had gathered on the deck. Someone nearly knocked him over when the second round of cheers went up, but he managed to dodge the blow and walk on. 

_Don’t look back._

And there…there they were…coming up before him as high as the world, as magnificent as the dawn: the white cliffs of dover.

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapter titles are quotes from Mr. Shakespeare. Now onto the history: 
> 
> \- The British Expeditionary Force (BEF) were dispatched to France since the start of the war in September, 1939. However, no fighting actually took place until May, 1940, when Germany invaded Belgium and the Netherlands, and three of their Panzer corps attacked France through the Ardennes. By 21 May, the Germans had trapped the BEF, the Belgian and French forces in an area along the northern coast of France. 
> 
> \- ‘General Gort' is General Viscount Gort, the Commander of the BEF, who began to see that evacuation across the English channel was the best course of action. Withdrawal to Dunkirk was ordered, and evacuation began on 26 May, 1940. Allies soldiers were rescued by over 800 boats, including the ‘little ships of Dunkirk’ which consisted of hundreds of fishing boats, pleasure barges, and merchant boats. This was not a victory, but the success of the operation was deemed a “miracle”, and the “Dunkirk Spirit” became a defiant phrase used by the British throughout the war. 
> 
> \- The German tank ‘halt order’ mentioned by Cassian was the inexplicable ‘halt order’ Hitler gave on 24 May, 1940. For 2-3 days, German tanks did not advance, giving the Allies time to set up key defences in towns such as Lille, Cassel, Bergues, Ypres, and Wormhout, the setting of the earlier part of this chapter. Soldiers - French and British alike - who manned these strongpoints around the ‘Dunkirk perimeter’ were the rearguard. Their heroism and sacrifice allowed the rest of the Allies soldiers to escape to Dunkirk. “Fight to the last man and the last round” was the order for those in the rearguard. When or if they were told to retreat, the order became, “Every man for himself, make for Dunkirk”. 
> 
> \- On 28 May, the town of Wormhoudt was taken by the Germans. By 18:00, the three companies of Warwicks who were defending the town were badly reduced and surrounded. Cassian, Kay, and Kes’ escape was inspired by the 74 soldiers who fought their way out, led by a Major Hicks. (That’s why there’s mention of a ‘Major’ in this chapter.) They managed it thanks to the heavy rainstorm and excellent shooting by a troop of the Worcester Yeomanry, who I gave somewhat of a ‘sniper role’ to. Also, anti-tank guns manned by resolute troops can cause heavy casualties to armoured formations, and on 28 May, the Germans were surprised by the heavy destruction that the anti-tank guns at Wormhoudt managed to cause to their Panzer Corps. 
> 
> \- Those left at Wormhoudt surrendered to Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler of the 20th Motorised Division. On the next day, the SS murdered 90 of these men in a barn in Wormhoudt. Another massacre occurred in Le Paradis, where 97 men were executed. Only a few survived to tell of these atrocities. Right after his escape, one survivor even met an ordinary Wehrmacht soldier who was appalled when he heard of what had happened. After the war, many of those responsible were prosecuted, but some - including the commander responsible for the Wormhoudt massacre Wilhelm Mohnke - managed to escape justice. 
> 
> \- During the evacuation, the BEF had to abandon nearly all their vehicles, tanks and equipment; many had to be burned so that the Germans could not make use of them. A total of 338,226 soldiers - British, French, and some Belgian - were evacuated, but the BEF lost 68,000 men in France. On 4 June, 1940, the Nazi flag was raised over Dunkirk.
> 
> \- The two books that were invaluable for my research were _Dunkirk: Retreat to Victory_ by Julian Thompson and _Forgotten Voices: Dunkirk_ by Joshua Levine. The dog Garrett, for example, was inspired by a real life story from _Forgotten Voices_. Other things like the condition on the beaches, the men’s mindset, their frustration with the RAF (who were actually there, but maybe not so much at the beaches) etc. were taken from these books. 
> 
> —
> 
> If you’ve gotten this far, well-the-friggin-done! I know I’m asking a lot for you guys to be interested in this story; it is very unconventional for fanfiction, and I really, really am muddling through everything! So if by some luck I still have your attention, PLEASE let me know your thoughts. I also welcome any corrections or random questions you may have. [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> .
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “We Few, We Happy Few” - in which Jyn and Shara do their duty (and more) in the Battle of Britain_


	4. We Few, We Happy Few

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jyn and Shara do their duty (and more) in the Battle of Britain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised Pilot Jyn, and here she is in all her reckless glory! I wanted to do something different with this chapter by giving Jyn other female characters to interact with, something she doesn’t get to do much in the film. But as you all know, original characters can be the death of a fanfic story, so hopefully I haven’t shot myself in the foot with this decision! 
> 
> **A VERY important note** : although many events and characters in this chapter are inspired by real life (see end notes), PLEASE keep in mind that this is _fanfiction_ at the end of the day. Whatever I write can never, ever do the real events and the real people justice. I’m also not a history student or a WWII expert. I’m going to make mistakes and take certain liberties with the history. Therefore, criticism and discussion are welcome, but only if they’re delivered rationally and with a sense of humour!
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than Robb Stark being alive. So please leave one if you can!

_**Previously:** Jyn and Cassian are people with pretty messed-up past. Through their friends, Shara and Kes, who are (sort of) seeing each other, they meet for the first time in November, 1939. The meeting doesn’t go particularly well. In 1940, Cassian, Kay, and Kes manage to escape from Dunkirk after the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) has been pulled out of France. Jyn and Shara are now pilots working for the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA), ferrying planes to RAF airfields, factories, and maintenance units. _

* * *

  

_Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few._

**Winston Churchill** on the pilots of the Battle of Britain

 

* * *

 

**13 September, 1940**

**Somewhere west of London**

 

Jyn Erso stuck her head out of the Tiger Moth’s open cockpit. Below her stretched the English countryside and woodlands, green and grey and lush in the afternoon sun. A river snaked its way up a mountain. From up here it looked as tiny as a single silk thread. The summer rain drizzled against her cheeks, but she did not feel cold. She felt free. _This is where I belong_ , she thought. 

The Tiger Moth’s design prevented her from seeing directly ahead so she poked her head out even further, searching…searching… searching… 

But still she could not see it. The thin strip of open field where she was supposed to land her plane. She was not worried, however, and she pulled her head back inside to study her map. She was not allowed to make any marks on it lest the map fell into enemy hands, but she had flown to this particular maintenance unit countless of times; she had no trouble connecting the river below to the one on the page, and the green hill to the pencilled one. She consulted her compass and gyro; ATA pilots flew without radio. And became assured that she was on the right track.

She stuck her head out again, but this time to the right side of the aircraft. The plane barely spun at her sudden movement; she knew how to handle the beast better than most pilots. _“Easy to fly, but difficult to fly well”_ , someone once said of Tiger moths. There was a farm house just below her right wing, another small stream climbing down from a different hill. She kept looking, looking, looking…and yes, there it is finally. The strip of open land, just beyond a small clump of forest. 

She coaxed the plane around and made ready for landing. This was the tricky bit. Like most other maintenance units dotted around the British countryside, this MU had to be cleverly hidden to avoid German aerial attacks. The airstrip was rough, and very short. A three point landing - bringing the tail down to the correct three point altitude - was the best way to land. It was not difficult to do with other types of aircraft, but with Tiger Moths… well, it tended to be more difficult with Tiger Moths. 

Jyn gave the side of the plane a strong, firm pat. “Come on, old girl,” she muttered under her breath. “Let’s finish this bloody job.” Her hand then found the crystal at her neck, and she brought it up for a kiss. The gesture was more out of habit than for luck. _Trust in the plane. Trust in your wits._

The ground loomed up larger before her. She grabbed hold of the controls, and braced herself for impact. _Wait…wait…_ Then, _now._ _The tail. Down. Speed. Wheels._ The wind whipped into her face, tightening her scarf around her neck, blustering against her goggles. And the plane bounced a little - only a little - as it kissed the ground. She could not help but grin widely while she let the Moth glide down the rest of the uneven airstrip until it came to a stop. The grin was still on her face while she shut down the engines, and stripped off her gloves, goggles, and helmet. 

“Nice landing, miss!” The lad bounded up to her excitedly. He was in his blue RAF uniform today, the insignia of the Air Training Corps Cadets proudly emblazoned on his chest. Sixteen years old and all bravado, he swept a strand of brown hair away from his green eyes. “She didn’t even bounce, miss!” he told her.

“She did, you little flatterer!” Jyn laughed. She climbed out of the cockpit and landed lightly on her feet. “She didn't bounce an awful lot, but she did bounce. Are you fishing for favours, Jack? You know I’m not giving you a kiss. You’ve got your Betsy for that.” 

The boy had the decency to blush. “Not a kiss, miss, of course not. A…um…a flight, maybe, if you’re so kind? Miss Dunlop let me fly the Puss Moth last week, and I already know how to handle the Gypsy.” 

“How about tomorrow morning? Just after dawn? I might have a couple of hours to spare before I catch my train.” She reached into Tiger Moth’s cockpit for her overnight bag and slung it over her shoulder. “But you must promise me, Jack. No funny business. No spins. Not with this ol’ bird. I don’t want my first time meeting your nan to end in tears.” 

The lad shook his head vigorously. “No, miss, I promise I won’t do any spins.” 

“Good.” She squinted through the light rainfall at the two one-storied buildings hidden in the forest up ahead. “Now, Jack, tell me who’s in there. I want to know before I go in.” 

“Your mate, miss. Miss Bey. She arrived a couple of hours before you with a Gypsy. Misses Stuart, Leski, and Aster just before lunch. They say they all want to catch the train together tomorrow morning. Less boring that way, they say.”

Jyn snorted. “Brilliant. That means all of us will get skinned alive by our Flight Captain when we get back to Hamble.” She was about to turn back to Jack when something new caught her eye. She frowned, took a step forward to see better through the grey drizzle. “Jack, is that a _Spitfire?_ ”

It really was a Spitfire. One of its wings had been thoroughly damaged, its right side - the side facing Jyn - was full of bullet holes, but it was still undoubtedly a Spitfire. 

“One of yours flew it from RAF Northolt yesterday, miss,” Jack answered. For whatever reason, he looked a bit uncomfortable. “At first, only the engine needed a bit of repair, but he got unlucky and ran into a few German sorties on the way. Those Jerries wouldn’t let him pass and riddled him with bullets, and he nearly crashed the plane when he tried to land it. He still hasn’t recovered, miss. Won’t leave our sick room no matter what we do.” 

“Poor bloke.” Jyn chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Go get your mates, Jack, and take her out back. The Tiger Moth too. You should know better than to leave them out in the open for long. Do you want to bring all the German bombers down on us?”

“No, miss.” This time Jack blushed for real. “We’ll get on it right away.” 

Jyn left the lad to his tasks and made her way toward the main maintenance buildings. From her previous trips, she knew the larger one was for the engineers and the male pilots, while the smaller one was for the cadets and the female pilots. She, of course, made for the latter. Like most all-male RAF airfields, maintenance units gave the women a waiting room to spend their time in, usually ones without a heater or working lights, with only a few chairs and blankets to see out the night. This MU was no different; Jyn had to slam her shoulder against the door frame for the door to open, and when she stepped into the room, she found it dimly lit. Not with electricity, but with the soft evening light streaming in through the room’s two windows. There was a couch in one corner, a table filled with cups and packs of biscuits in another. Near it was a small stove, and on it, a copper kettle, whistling away. Her friend Shara Bey was standing by it, watching it boil. 

But it was not Shara who greeted Jyn when she entered the room. It was the little red head Rosemary Stuart who jumped up first. 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Jyn!” the Scottish girl exclaimed. “We were all worried when we heard you were flying over London! Jack told us about the pilot in the sick room, and oh, we’ve heard such awful - ” 

“Let the woman breathe, Rosie.” Shara rolled her eyes, but when she came over to peck Jyn on the cheek, she looked relieved. “Honey, the next time you decide to be late, find a way to let us know.”

Jyn shrugged. “The rain was being a nuisance. As you all bloody well know.”

“It rained when I flew and I wasn’t late,” said Aster. The Ethiopian sat up on the couch, and fixed Jyn with her dark wise eyes. “It rained when we all flew.” 

“It _stormed_ when I flew,” remarked Anna Lekis. The Polish woman was sitting on the floor with her heavy pilot jacket as a cushion. She had a cup of tea in one hand, a cigarette in the other. 

“Fine.” Jyn smirked. “I got lost. Are you lot happy now?” 

“Not really.” Shara poured her a cup of tea, which she took gingerly. 

“What is it this time?” she asked her fellow pilots. 

“You haven’t heard?” Rosemary’s eyes widened in shock. The girl had such delicate features, as beautiful as those Renaissance paintings Jyn knew hung in the Scottish castle where she grew up. Even the look of frank astonishment she now wore reminded Jyn of them. 

“Heard what?” Jyn asked, looking to Shara. 

But it was Anna who answered. “Bombs. German ones.”

“The east end docks again? Or Merseyside? The south coast?” 

Shara shook her head grimly. “Buckingham Palace.” 

“Buckingham Palace?” It seemed absurd, and yet… “Was anyone hurt?” 

“Yes,” Anna replied bluntly. “Five workers got injured, but the royal family are unharmed. We heard it all on the wireless.” 

Jyn let out a breath. Then said, “Well, it’s about damn time. Those lot can now look the east end in the face.” 

Anna and Shara laughed, but Rosemary looked unsure if she should. Jyn walked over to the table and grabbed a pack of biscuits. She used her teeth to tear it open, and spoke to Shara in a slightly quieter tone. “Where are all the people? This place looks half-empty, and it is quiet as a grave outside.”

“Well, some of the engineers are here. And the cadets,” Shara answered. She began pouring a cup of tea for herself. “But all the pilots are back at their airfields. They can’t afford to hang around maintenance units now. Makes sense.” 

“Have you heard anything new while I was up in the air?” 

Shara frowned, and she too lowered her voice. “Other than the news from Buckingham Palace? Not really. But…”

“But what?”

“Well...” The American’s eyes gleamed. “It will be soon, won’t it? The Germans have been bombing London for weeks now, and Liverpool too. Before this they only targeted airfields and factories, which means - ”

“Later,” Jyn hissed. She said the word just in time, for Jack and another cadet took that moment to come rushing into the waiting room, their arms laden with blankets, pillows, and canteens of water. 

They spent half an hour joking around with the lads, and then around fifteen more minutes after the lads had left to sort out which area of the room each of them was going to sleep in. Aster got the couch because of her bad back, Anna and Rosemary took the corner by the table, and Shara and Jyn decided on the spot just below the west window. It was out of this window that they watched the sun set while they ate a depressing meal of apples, biscuits, and cold chips, before washing it all down with water that tasted like steel. Two candles were then lit, and the five of them huddled around the flames, all wrapped in blankets. Their faces were half-concealed in shadows now that the candles and the moon were their only source of light. Outside, the rain continued to fall. 

This was something they did often; sharing news and gossip they had heard from pilots and officers at other airfields. Shara started the conversation off by repeating her question for all of them to hear. “It will be soon, won’t it?” 

Aster was the one who answered. “Yes, it will be soon,” she said. As the oldest one in their group, the Ethiopian had the most experience with both flying and war. And she had a slow, calm way of speaking that made even the most dreadful thing sound soothing. “As long as the weather is bad, the Germans will not invade. But everyone knows that two days from now, on the fifteenth, the skies will clear, and that is when they’ll come across the channel. I’ve heard that all our Hurricanes and Spitfires are needed, and that every available fighter pilot has been called back to their airfields. The Germans are going to attack London. I’m certain of it. Which means Groups Ten, Eleven, and Twelve are going to be hit hard.” 

Rosemary’s beautiful eyes widened in the yellow light. “How can you be so certain, Aster? How do you know so much?” 

Aster smiled kindly. “I listen, child. To the wireless, to the wind, to the rain. To the men who do not always know I am there.”

The Scottish girl blushed prettily. “Of course you do. That was a stupid question, I shouldn't have asked.” 

“What about you, Rosemary? What have _you_ heard?” 

“Me?” Rosemary gasped. “Well, I’m not - ” 

“Well, _I’ve_ heard that the Air Vice Marshall from New Zealand…what’s his name…Park?” Anna interrupted as she lit a new cigarette. “Yes, Park, of Group Eleven. He’s not getting on well at all with Group Twelve. He loathes Leigh-Mallory, and Leigh-Mallory - ”

“I asked Rosemary, Anna. Not you,” said Aster, amused. 

“Well, _pah!_ ” The Polish woman waved her hand that held the cigarette. “The mouse knows nothing.” 

“I do know some things!” countered Rosemary hotly.

“Really? What do you know?” 

“Well…” The Scottish girl blushed again. “Well…I know that…that…Air Vice Marshall Park still does not like the Big Wing formation - ”

“You’re supposed to bring _new_ information to the table, Rosie! What you’re saying is what _I_ already know. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that no one except for Leigh-Mallory and his squadron likes the Big Wing formation.” Anna scoffed loudly. She waved her hands as she talked, spilling smoke everywhere. “I was at Uxbridge last week, and they had an awful row about it over the radio. Park wanted Twelve Group to show up as the reserves for his squadrons, but because of Leigh-Mallory’s stupid Big Wing plan, they showed up late and - ” 

“Hush, Anna, let the girl talk,” Jyn cut in. She called Rosemary ‘girl’ even though the Scottish pilot was only a few years younger than she was. It could not be helped; her experience dictated such behaviour. Sometimes, she felt that even _Shara_  was younger than her. 

Rosemary blushed again. “Well, Anna said everything I wanted to say. That’s exactly what happened at Uxbridge the last time I was there.” The girl dropped her eyes. “There was a lot of yelling. I didn’t want to stay around after that.”

Aster frowned as she turned to the Scottish girl. Her dark skin glowed magnificently in the candlelight. “I never fly to Uxbridge and Watnall, and I have never met Park or Leigh-Mallory,” she said quietly, “but if these men are truly fighting over tactics and formations…”

Jyn caught on immediately, and said, “Then that’s a worry. A big worry.” 

Astor nodded in agreement. 

The five women all stared at each other in silence as the enormity of Aster and Jyn’s statement sank in. Already outnumbered and outgunned, now it seemed they might be out-planned. _Typical,_ thought Jyn, _that all my causes are plagued with bad luck._

Anna shook her head stubbornly. “Park is smart,” the Pole told them. “He will sort it out. He’ll come up with something, Big Wing or no. You’ll see.” 

“And our fighter pilots are _very_ brave,” piped up Rosemary, whose older brother was one of these pilots. He flew Hurricanes with Thirteen Group in the north, Jyn knew. “We shall prevail, my father told me. It doesn’t matter how much they bomb us, he says. Our spirit is strong.” 

Aster smiled thinly. “So are theirs, child.” 

Jyn bit down on her bottom lip until she could taste blood. “I envy your brother, Rose,” she said in a strained voice. “I envy all of them. All the men. They get to go into combat while all we do is ferry planes from Point A to Point B. It is hardly fair. Why should only men be killed?” 

“The Soviet Union has female pilots who go into combat,” said Anna, looking half-amused. “They bomb Nazi airfields in the night. No one sees them coming.” 

“Well, combat or no combat,” said Shara, in a gallant attempt at sounding cheery, “as long as I’m flying, I’m happy. Give me a plane and I’ll do my bit. That’s all there is to it. And I know I sound selfish, but sometimes…sometimes I wish the war would go on for a while longer so I could keep on flying.” 

Anna’s voice cut like a knife when she spoke. “That’s easy for you to say, Bey. _Your_ bloody country is not occupied.” 

Shara’s face immediately crumbled. “Anna, I didn’t mean - ”

“I know what you meant. You don’t need to explain. You Americans never can see past the end of your own nose.” 

“That’s - it was stupid, Anna, I really didn’t think - ”

“Bloody hell, will you just shut the _hell_ up?” 

Jyn saw her best friend’s expression turn to stone in the candlelight; her bright eyes became hard, her lips pursed as if to bite down a scream. But Jyn would never know what the American would have said in retaliation, for Aster chose that moment to raise her voice into the tense silence. 

“Words said in jest or without thought are not always malicious, Anna.” But the Pole merely averted her eyes while she took a drag from her cigarette. Aster turned to Rosemary instead, and said kindly, “Now, child, you still owe me a story. Tell me something. Something happy, perhaps. We are all too glum for my liking.” 

“Oh! I - I don’t think I know any stories,” Rosemary stammered. “I never thought about stories much…not lately.” She looked around shyly at the other women. Her eyes dropped again. The candles flickered on. And Jyn could see the exact moment the memory came to her. 

“Oh, but this might be called a story, I suppose,” said Rosemary, her voice turning wistful. “There was this one day when I was a little girl. It was a cold day in fall. I remember how orange the world looked from my bedroom window when I woke up in the morning; all the trees had changed colour over night, you see. I could see mountains and mountains of red, orange, and yellow leaves in the yard, and beyond that, the Scottish highlands that stretched on forever, and beyond that, the bright blue sky. To this day, it is still the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. 

I went to my brother Jimmy, because I have always gone to him for as long as I could remember. I wanted to escape for the day, I told him. To go somewhere all my governesses and tutors would never find me. Jimmy smiled. Said he knew just the place. And he took me up into his plane, sat me on his knees, and flew us all the way to Inverness without anyone knowing. We even flew over Loch Ness because I told him I wanted to see the monster.” She smiled, and like everything else she did, she did it beautifully. “That was the day I decided to be a pilot. And if I could bottle that feeling somehow, I would choose to feel it forever. Is this a happy story, Aster?” 

The older woman returned the girl’s smile with a warm one of her own. “Yes, it is, child. The happiest.” 

The candles were nearly all burned out now. Anna turned away to put out her cigarette, and her face was obscured from Jyn’s view. But she could still see Shara’s very clearly in the flickering light. Her friend looked scared and unsure, and she felt sadness wash over her at the unfamiliar sight.

She heard herself saying softly, “Rosemary, give us a song, if you please. Maybe something that reminds you of home.” 

Rosemary smiled at her, and nodded. Anna might have called Rosemary a mouse, but the girl could sing. The ATA pilots would always ask her to whenever they could; hymns, folk songs, pop tunes that were popular on the wireless. But tonight there was a strange tremor in the girl’s voice, something incredibly sad and fragile. Yet somehow it made the song sound sweeter than any song she had ever sung before.

 

_My heart is sair, I daurna tell_

_My heart is sair for somebody_

_I could wake a winter night_

_For the sake o’ somebody_

_I could range the world around_

_For the sake o’ somebody_

 

_Ye powers that smile on virtuous love_

_O, sweetly smile on somebody_

_Frae ilka danger keep him free,_

_And send me safe my somebody_

 

When the last notes had drifted into nothingness, they sat for a while listening to the silence. And if one of them shed a tear, nobody ever mentioned it afterward. They then blew out the candles, and went to their separate corners of the room to try and sleep.

But before Jyn could close her eyes, she felt Shara tugging at her shoulder gently in the dark. 

“I messed everything up, didn’t I?” Shara whispered. “I always mess everything up.” 

Jyn turned on her side so she could face her friend. All she could see were Shara’s eyes, gleaming like two vulnerable torches in the dark. 

“You didn’t mess anything up, silly,” Jyn told her. “You should have used your brain before you spoke, that’s all.” 

Shara scoffed. “Advice? On thinking before speaking? From _you?_ ”

“Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous, but - ”

Shara sighed heavily. “Honey, it’s not ridiculous, of course you’re right.” Her brows furrowed together. She looked thoughtful, and slightly embarrassed. “Sometimes I can’t quite help myself, Jyn. I _never_ think. Or sometimes I think far too much. It’s like I have a hundred different things going on in my head all at once.”

“I understand.” She did. She really did. 

“Flying helps, of course. Flying always helps,” Shara muttered. “It’s the only thing I’m good at. You know that. It’s why I’ve come to England. To fly. To fight. To make a difference. To - ”

“To kill Nazis? I thought you didn’t care about that.” 

Shara’s eyes softened in the dark. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

“Well…” Jyn had to force herself to say the words. “Speaking as someone who has killed Nazis, it’s not all it’s cut out to be.” 

Shara’s hand immediately found hers underneath the blanket. “Oh, I'm sorry, honey, I’m such an idiot! Again, I didn’t _think_ \- ” 

“If you say you're an idiot one more time, I'm going to punch you. Hard.” 

“I just want to fly, Jyn. That’s all I want to do. Just fly.”

Jyn levelled her friend with a knowing stare. “You keep saying that, but are you sure that’s _all_ you want?”

Shara did not answer right away. Her eyes flickered down to her chest, then back up to Jyn’s again. “Kes sent me another letter. I got it just yesterday.” 

“What did it say?” 

“That he’s out of hospital now, and back at his old place in North London. He still limps. The doctor says he will always limp.” 

Jyn’s breath caught in her throat. “But he’ll - ” 

“He’ll be okay, there’s no need to worry. He just can’t walk properly like he used to, that’s all. But you wouldn’t be able to tell that he’s sad about it from his letters. He keeps making jokes.” Shara sighed. “He doesn’t know what they’re going to do with him now that his leg like this. He keeps writing to say that he misses me. That he wants to see me.”

“Then go see him, stupid.” 

“No, I don't want to. His friends are there. This person he calls Kay. And Cassian Andor.” 

“Cassian Andor?” Jyn vaguely remembered a pair of tired eyes and a warm hand on the small of her back. London at night with the rain falling down. And all the drinks she had drowned in the pub that night which had ruined everything. 

She rubbed her nose furiously, and asked in a timid voice, “So Cassian Andor made it back from France then?”

“Yes, he did. Oh, I forgot. You met him once.”

“Very briefly.”

Shara frowned. “Well, he did make it out in one piece. You should be glad to hear that.” 

Jyn could only nod, and changed the subject. “Shara, what’s the _real_ reason you don’t want to go see Kes?” 

Her friend became silent for a moment, then spoke again even more quietly. “His letters. They’re different somehow. They used to be fun, flirty, funny as hell. But now they’re…well, sometimes they’re still funny, but they’re all so… _serious._ I don’t know how to do serious.” 

“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to.” Jyn smiled a little. “What are you so afraid of, Shara?”

“The same thing _you_ are afraid of,” replied Shara. “And don’t you roll your eyes at me, honey, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Men lie and cheat and leave. That’s all they do.” 

Jyn had nothing to say to that, for she knew her friend was right. It was something she herself had learned ever since she could walk, or talk, or remember. Her free hand went to her crystal again, and she gripped it tightly in her palm. 

“Well, at least we have each other, right?” said Shara, once the moment had passed. 

“Yes, we do have each other,” Jyn agreed. Then mischievously, she added, “For now.” 

Shara groaned. “Golly, stop being the harbinger of doom, Erso!”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t help it!” said Jyn, her voice rising too. 

“Yes, you can help it, you just don’t _want_ to!” 

“I do too!” 

“No, you don’t!” 

“Shut it, you!” 

“No, _you_ shut it!” 

It was Anna who decided the matter once and for all when she roared, “SHUT UP! _BOTH_ OF YOU!” 

 

* * *

 

Jyn slept, and Jyn dreamed. 

The dreams were nothing of consequence at first, only images that flicker randomly in and out of her mind like tiny flashes of light. Shara was there, laughing one minute and crying the next. Aster regarded her with those sad, clever eyes that saw too much. And Rosemary’s voice broke and cracked as she sang, the notes twisting around her heart as if to choke it until it ran blood. The Tiger Moth shuddered, danced, jumped when she soared it over rain-soaked fields and forests. And she was still searching, searching, _searching…_

And then the dream changed. 

_I know this dream,_ she realised desperately. _Please don’t let it be this dream. Not this one._

But it was too late. The cock pit and the sky were already fading, and before she knew it, she was running as fast as she could. When she looked down, her legs seemed only tiny weak pair of strings that could hold up no weight. Every breath she drew was a knife in her rib cage, turning, twisting, biting. _Boom, boom, boom,_ went her footsteps as they beat down on the earth. Tears...there were too many tears. They froze on her cheeks like shards of ice. 

She knew the sound was coming before it came. The gunshot. And for the hundredth time, Jyn Erso heard her mother die. 

She woke drenched in sweat, panting and gasping for air. Beside her Shara was still breathing softly in her sleep, oblivious to her torments. The room was as dark as it had been when they went to sleep, but when she peered out the window, she saw that the sky was grey, not black. It was the hour before dawn, she knew.

_I need a cigarette,_ Jyn thought desperately. 

Anna always slept deeply, and she did not stir when Jyn tip-toed over to steal a cigarette from the pack that had been left beside her pillow. Jyn then slipped outside, making sure to make as little noise as possible when she pushed the door open. She tugged the blanket tighter around her body, and lit the stolen cigarette with the lighter she had always kept in her pocket. It’s true what people say: old habits really do die hard. 

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe_ , she reminded herself. _You should be used to these dreams by now._ But no matter what she told herself, it did no good. _Can you ever get used to seeing your mother die?_

_My heart is sair_ _indeed_ , she reflected. 

There was no way she could go back to sleep now. She decided to go have a look at the planes instead; it was the only thing that ever helped with her nightmares. She had promised Jack he could fly the Tiger Moth some time after dawn, and she supposed the boy wouldn’t mind if they met at the hangar instead of the airstrip. As she walked, her mind strayed to what they had talked about last night. The battle was close, they all knew it. But it felt as if the rest of the world knew it too. The grass, the earth, the sky, even the crickets and the birds in the trees. She didn’t know how they knew, but the eerie silence said they did. 

There was a latch at the hangar door, but to Jyn, the door could have been left wide open and it would make no difference. She found her way in easily, switched on the lights, and her heart stopped when she saw what lied within. 

_It can’t be_ , was her very first thought. But then, there they were.

“Miss?” 

She only just spotted him, lounging on a nearby crate. His cadet uniform was only half-buttoned up, his eyes still full of sleep, and there was a cup of tea in his hand. When her eyes met his, he nearly dropped it. 

“Miss, I thought we were to meet at the airstrip. I didn’t know you wanted to - ” 

“Jack, why are there three Hurricanes and three Spitfires in this hangar?” Jyn demanded. The boy’s face paled. “They’re not riddled with bullets like the one I saw outside yesterday, unless something is wrong with their engines. Is there something wrong with their engines?”

“No, miss.” The lad lowered his eyes. 

“Then why are they still here, and not at an RAF airfield?” 

“Miss, maybe you should speak to -”

“Answer the bloody question, Jack!” 

The boy gulped. “The engineers finished fixing them a week ago, miss, and they were supposed to go to Northolt two days ago. Only the pilots who were meant to ferry them never showed up. Messages sometimes get lost and go unanswered during the war, they tell us. So we sent for more pilots. They’re arriving in three days.”

“ _Three_ days? That’s not going to be on time!”

Jack’s eyes widened. “On time for what, miss?” 

Jyn did not answer his question, but scoffed instead. “And no pilots, you said. What am I, then? Wallpaper?”

The boy had the grace to look ashamed. “Female pilots are not allowed to fly fighter planes, miss. I didn’t want to say anything about the planes because I knew you would get angry and... “

“And what? Take matters into my own hands? You’re bloody right, I will!”

“Miss, please, they won’t listen -”

“Go wake your commanding officer, Jack. Let him know myself and the girls will be coming to see him with a proposition. And if he doesn’t _want_ to wake up, tell him I have no trouble marching into his bedroom and pouring cold water on him.” 

Jack went. He might looked as if he wanted to disappear into the ground, but he went. 

Aster was pouring tea when Jyn came back to the waiting room. Shara looked up from where she was crouched on the ground, packing her overnight bag. “Oh, there you are. We thought you’ve gone to the train station without us.” 

“Never mind about the train,” Jyn said brusquely. “There’s something else we need to do first before we head back to Hamble.” 

By the time she was done telling them of her intentions, Rosemary was openly gaping at her with astonishment. Anna and Aster shared a look that she did not care to interpret. But it was Shara who first broke the silence. 

“Jyn, I’m sure it’s hard for us to do nothing,” said the American in a cautious tone, “but five fighter planes...I’m not sure how much of a difference that would make.” 

Jyn’s voice cracked like a whip. “We need our planes more than the Germans need theirs.” 

Shara winced at the anger in her voice. “I’m aware of that, of course I am. But honey...we are not allowed to do this. You know that.”

“We’re allowed to authorise our own flights,” Jyn argued stubbornly.

“Yes, but not for fighter planes. If we do this, there’s a chance that we might get kicked out of the ATA. No more planes. No more flying. No more... _anything_ , really!” 

“There will be officers who support us. Flight Captain Cochran -”

“We don’t know that.” 

“Cochran is the first woman to fly a bomber across the Atlantic, she’ll understand.” Jyn stared at Shara, imploring her. Begging her. _Don’t say no. Not you._

Shara turned to Aster instead. “Aster, what do you think?”

The Ethiopian regarded Jyn thoughtfully while Anna stood by, puffing silently on a cigarette. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, until finally Aster said, “We should do what we can.”

Jyn turned to her best friend. “Shara?” 

“If we’re all doing it…then I suppose, yes...” Shara mumbled. “But Jyn... “

“You’ll not lose your wings for this, I promise.” 

A soft smile brushed over the American’s lips. “Honey, you can’t promise me that. No one can promise me that” 

 

* * *

 

The First Officer was shrugging into his jacket when they came barging into his office. Jack had the man’s tie in his hands, and the lad immediately lowered his eyes once he saw the women coming through the door. 

“I know what you lot want, yes I do,” growled the First Officer, a big-bellied man with a moustache so bushy it nearly covered all the layers of his chin. “The lad told me. Woke me up even before the sun was in the sky. Bloody infuriating.” 

“Sir, there are six - ”

The man raised a hand to cut Jyn off. “I’m perfectly aware of how many operational fighter planes we have at this maintenance unit, my dear, there is no need for you to tell me.”

“Then surely you must know that they should be at Northolt, sir. We need those planes in the sky once the weather clears tomorrow. We can’t afford to wait for male pilots to come in three days to ferry them. _We_ are here now.” 

“Yes, you’re here now, but women aren’t allowed to ferry fighter planes, dear. The rules are very clear.” He slurped the tea that Jack had just handed to him. “We all appreciate what you’ve done so far, we really do, but Hurricanes…Spitfires…these planes need to be handled with a certain _strength._ ” 

“Sir, I ask you to choose your next words _very_ carefully,” Jyn growled, her hands curling into fists. Shara threw her a warning look, but she pretended not to see it. “We are more than qualified, sir. _I’ve_ flown Spitfires before, Miss Bey has experience handling Hurricanes, and - ”

“And my brother is a fighter pilot with Thirteen Group, sir,” Rosemary spoke up unexpectedly, her voice pitched high. The rest of the women stared at her in surprise, but the Scottish girl carried on bravely. “He taught me how to fly both the Spitfire and the Hurricane, sir. He said I flew better than many of his instructors.” 

The First Officer nearly spit out his tea. “My dear, that does not mean you’re up for - ”

“Oh, but it does, sir,” Anna broke in. The Pole smiled a sickly smile that made her look more frightening than a man thrice her size. “It _does_ mean we’re up for the task. Your stupid rules just say we’re not.”

“Miss Lekis stole a Polish plane right under the noses of the Nazis and flew it all the way to Romania, sir,” Aster said smoothly. “I say she’s _more_ than up to the task. While I myself have more flying hours than all these girls put together.” 

“I _cannot_ allow this! There are precedents! Etiquettes! What will people say?” 

“What will people say when they discover you’ve withheld five fighter planes from the battle, sir?” Jyn demanded. “Does it matter who ferries the planes as long as they’re where they ought to be?” 

“My dear girl - ”

“Call me _dear_ one more time, sir, and I swear to you, you’ll see what a _certain strength_ looks like.” 

The man’s cheeks reddened. “You presume too much.” 

“Sir,” Aster interrupted, her voice full of a calmness that Jyn did not feel, “we all want the ATA and the RAF to succeed. We all want to win the war. Please. Call Northolt, sir. Tell them we’re coming with three Hurricanes and two Spitfires.” 

“And your commanding officers at Hamble?” the First Officer asked bitingly. “Should I let them know as well?” 

Jyn’s gaze flickered to Shara, and it was the American who gave the final nod. “Do what you must, sir,” said Shara. “We are not afraid of the consequences.” 

A lie, Jyn thought, but a lie told well, and told boldly. After they had left the First Officer’s office, she gave her friend’s arm a squeeze. “Thank you. I know you’re not at all sure about this, but - ”

“We’re doing it now, aren’t we?” Shara gave a shrug. “So go hard or go home, I say!” 

“We do have one problem, though,” said Anna, frowning. “None of us has ever flown to Northolt before. We need headings. Directions. Tips.”

Jyn nodded. “I have a plan for that too.”

 

* * *

 

The sick room might be basked in sunlight, but the man was still asleep, curled up in the tiny hospital bed like a bird whose wings had been clipped. There was no one else in the room; not even a resident nurse was in attendance. When Jyn put a gentle hand on his shoulder, the man jerked awake, his dark eyes flying open with fright. 

“Oh my goodness!” Rosemary gasped. 

Jyn saw them too - the hollows beneath the man’s eyes, the pale and sickly tint to his skin, the way his eyes darted around like a rabbit caught in a trap. Jack said the man hadn’t yet recovered from nearly getting shot down by German planes. One look at him proved the lad’s words to be true. 

“Are you the pilot?” Jyn asked. It was a stupid question, really; the man was in his ATA uniform. “We heard you flew here from Northolt in a Spitfire.”

“Spitfire?” His voice sounded like it hadn’t been used in years. “I - I didn’t…shot down. _Fire._ My wings…” He looked at all the women gathered around his bed, and his face grew even paler. “It wasn’t…I tried…but they were…I couldn’t land…”

Jyn glanced at her friends. “Maybe you lot can wait outside?”

Rosemary nodded, her eyes wide, and Aster led them out of the room. 

When the two of them were alone, Jyn asked him again. “Are you the pilot?”

His eyes clasped on hers. They were brown, watery, fidgety, like a lost child’s. “I…I’m - I’m the pilot.”

“My name is Jyn. Jyn Erso. What’s yours?”

“Bodhi. Bodhi Rook.” He lowered his gaze, and rasped, “Water.”

There was a glass by his bedside. She filled it with water from a nearby pitcher and brought it to him. He drank it all in one go, then put the glass aside with trembling hands. “How long?” he asked.

“A cadet told me you arrived the day before yesterday. I saw the Spitfire you brought. It looked bad.” She crouched down so her face was level with his. “You did very well to land at all.”

“I - I didn’t see them coming. I should have seen them coming. Or I should have shaken them off. Somehow.” 

“It’s not your fault, Bodhi.” The man still looked traumatised, Jyn thought sadly, and her heart went out to him. There was something sincere and sweet about him, with his shabby beard and messy hair. Despite his fear, she could glimpse the kindness in his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Bodhi asked. 

“We need help.”

“Help? From _me_?” 

She smiled kindly. “Yes. From you. We’re ferrying a few Hurricanes and Spitfires to Northolt, but we don’t know the way. Can you help us?”

For a few seconds, Bodhi did not say anything at all. He simply looked at her, hesitant. Then something passed over his face. A quiet determination, perhaps. Then his mouth thinned, and he gave a stern nod. “I must…I must be brave,” he said. 

Before she knew it, Jyn had reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you.” 

“My notebook. Pencil. Paper.”

Jyn rummaged through the drawer by the bed and found the items in question. With shaking hands, Bodhi began to write down the headings for her. His explanations were short and to the point, although his voice trembled when he spoke. 

“Northolt is a little…a little hard to find,” he was saying to her. “It’s camouflaged. It looks…it looks more like civil housing from above. Gardens. Farm houses. Barns. A fake stream is painted across the airstrip. So look…look for a stream.” 

Jyn took the piece of paper from him. “Thank you, Bodhi, this is great. I wish you could come with us.”

“I wish I could too.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips, but it was enough to brighten his features, turning him into a young and handsome man. 

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” said Jyn. 

“I…I hope so too.” Then when she rose to her feet, he said, “Oh. And one more thing.” 

“Yes?” 

Bodhi frowned. “Do you smoke?” 

 

* * *

 

Her second cigarette was nearly finished by the time she caught sight of the stream. 

Bodhi had been right; fly the first heading for one cigarette, then fly the second heading for another, and there she’d find Northolt. Unconventional directions to be sure, but Jyn was used to unconventional directions flying with the ATA. She flicked the stub out of the cockpit window, pulled the window shut, and dipped the Spitfire down toward the ground. 

There was nothing quite like flying a Spitfire. The way it cut through the air as if it were a bird, effortless and at one with the clouds. She was tempted to take an extra loop around the airfield just so she could experience the thrill a little longer, but she knew her friends were coming up behind her with their own aircrafts; she dared not linger. Every minute was precious in this war.

The crystal was cold when she put it to her lips. _Trust the plane. Trust your wits._

Like Bodhi had told her, the stream was not really a stream. As she flew down nearer and nearer she saw the water changed. Instead of tiny rippling waves, there was granite below her. And when the plane touched down, she was not surrounded by the gardens and farm houses she had seen from above. Every where she looked, there were grey buildings, huts, and men in RAF uniforms - pilots and engineers - running hurriedly around the place. She zoomed past a broken-down Hurricane, a few officers conversing by the airstrip, a very important-looking car with dark, tinted windows. The situation was plain to see; this was an airfield in the middle of battle preparation. 

When Jyn had climbed out of the cockpit, she was greeted by a pilot with slick black hair and thick bushy eyebrows. He smiled warmly at her as though she was an old friend. 

“Sergeant Josef Frantisek of the 303 Polish Squadron,” he said in a heavy eastern European accent. He took her hand in a firm grip and shook it. 

“Jyn Erso. Pleasure to meet you, Sergeant.” 

“I want to personally welcome you to Northolt, Miss Erso. All the lads have been quite excited ever since we heard some pretty girls were bringing us more Hurricanes and Spitfires." 

“Pretty girls?” Jyn could not help but laugh. “Are pretty girls a rare sight in Northolt?” 

“Pretty girls, no. But pretty girls with Spitfires, yes. I thought the ATA didn’t allow women to fly fighter planes.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” Jyn began removing her gloves. “I’ve heard of your Polish squadron, Sergeant. Brilliant flying you’re doing.” 

“Ah. My Polish colleagues would be glad to hear that, I’m sure.” 

They began walking down the airstrip together while cadets and engineers rushed over to attend to the Spitfire. Jyn asked Frantisek in the most casual tone she could muster, “I heard tomorrow might be a busy day for your Group, Sergeant. Are you prepared?” 

“As prepared as we can be, miss.” The man frowned. “We trust Park.”

“Everyone says so, but I’ve never met him. Is he as great as everyone says?”

The man grinned. “No, Miss Erso. He’s better.”

Frantisek led her to the airfield’s main waiting room and excused himself. In the hour that followed, Jyn could only drink tea and pace around the half-furnished room as she waited for her friends to arrive. Shara was the next one to touch down with a Hurricane, then Rosemary with a Spitfire, and then Anna and Aster with Hurricanes. 

Once they were all reunited, Anna asked, “Should we wait here for the night? Hang around to see what happens tomorrow?”

Aster shook her head. “No, we shouldn’t. We’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Jyn thought of the promise she gave Shara, and found herself nodding in agreement. “We make for Hamble. Now. Our job here is done.” 

But they couldn’t get back to Hamble as quickly as they wanted. They could not find anyone who'd give them a ride to the nearest train station, and when they tried to hitch-hike, none of the cars wanted to stop and take on five women as extra passengers. That evening they returned to Northolt defeated and discouraged. They spent another sleepless night in the cold waiting room, and started out again at dawn. 

The weather on the fifteenth was bright and clear like it had been forecasted. _The day of the battle_ , Jyn reflected. _Perfect flying conditions._ In her heart of hearts, she wanted to stay at Northolt. To see all the squadrons take to the skies in their fighter planes, and wander around the airfield for news. But she knew there was nothing left for her and her friends here. Everything was now in the hands of Park and his Group Eleven, in Leigh Mallory's and his Group Twelve, as well as in Group Ten's in Wiltshire. All _she_ could do was return to her own airfield, and make sure that her promise to Shara was kept. 

It was dark by the time the farmer’s lorry dropped them off at Hamble. They all stumbled through the gates exhausted and on edge. They had no way of getting news on the battle as they travelled, and the suspense had been excruciating. When they caught sight of Maureen Dunlop leaving Hamble’s main building and heading for the airstrip, the shout that escaped Jyn’s lips sounded incredibly desperate.

The Argentine stopped at the sound of her name. “There you are!” she said once Jyn and her companions had reached her. “Erso, Cochran’s looking for you. We all heard what you did, and we’re supposed to send you to her as soon as you arrive.”

“Just Erso?” asked Shara, confused. “What about the rest of us?”

“The rest of you as well. But Erso first.”

_This is it,_ Jyn thought. _I’m done. I’m finished._ But all she said was, “Never mind that. What about the battle? Have you heard anything? From Group Ten? Eleven? Twelve?”

Maureen’s eyes narrowed. “You really haven’t heard?”

“We were on a train, then in a lorry, how could we have heard anything? For God’s sake, Maureen, put us out of our misery!” 

“Goodness, Erso, am I the first one to tell you this? You better remember me for the rest of your days, then!” Maureen’s beautiful face broke into a smile. “The Germans crossed the channel and attacked London early this morning. They hoped to draw out all our fighter planes and annihilate them in one go. Fighter Command sent squadrons up into the sky before noon. Park and his Group Eleven, Leigh-Mallory and his stupid Big Wing formation, and Group Ten - they all fought one hell of a fight! Hurricanes! Spitfires! Our pilots shot down _fifty-six_ German planes! _Fifty-six!_ We’ve won! We’ve bloody gone and won!” 

 

* * *

 

Flight Captain Jacqueline Cochran’s office was as neat as the woman herself. All the drawers were never left open, and all the books in the shelves alphabetically organised. There were no mountains of messy documents on the surface of her desk. Instead, there was a wireless set on one end, and a few folded stacks of paper on the other. A framed photograph of Cochran standing beside Amelia Earhart greeted Jyn the moment she sat down. 

“Flight Captain.”

Jacqueline Cochran arched one pristine eyebrow. “So you’re not dead.” 

“No, I’m not.” Jyn had never responded well to authority, but there was something about this sharp, quick-witted American woman that softened her rebellious streak. Quickly she added, “ _Ma’am._ I’m not dead _, ma’am._ ” 

“Do you realised what you’ve done, Miss Erso?” 

“We flew fighter planes, ma’am.” And before Cochran could say anything else, Jyn rushed on. “It was my idea. I convinced the rest of them to do it. Shara didn’t even want to! Those planes needed to be delivered for the battle, ma’am, and I saw an opportunity to be of help and I took it. I have no regrets. I had hoped you’d understand.” _Please understand. Please._

For a long moment, Jacqueline Cochran said nothing at all. Then she spread her hands. “What do you see, Miss Erso?”

“What - what do I _see,_ ma’am?” 

“Here. On my desk.” 

_Is this a trick?_ “I see a photograph of you and Amelia Earhart, ma’am. And a wireless set.” 

Cochran pursed her lips in an impatient manner. “No, Miss Erso. What else do you see?” 

“Papers?”

“Letters,” the Flight Captain corrected. “I’ve been writing letters to the First Lady. To Eleanor Roosevelt herself. Do you know why I write these letters?” 

“No, ma’am,” Jyn replied sullenly. 

“I write these letters to ask the American government to give female pilots something to do in this war. _Anything_ to do. We are ready, we are qualified, so I want us put to good use. I want them to let us serve our country.” Cochran held up one of these letters for Jyn to see, but from where she sat, she could not quite make out the words. “So far…I’ve received no reply. Sure, there was a polite official typed-up response once, saying they’ll look into the matter, but I'm not foolish enough to believe them. This is why I’m in England, Miss Erso. Here I have the opportunity to do what I can’t do at home.” 

“Ma’am, I don’t see how this is - ”

“For us to have the _slightest_ chance, Miss Erso, we have to be twice as smart. Twice as brave. Twice as good.” 

Jyn swallowed. “Yes I know, ma’am.” 

“Do you?” The look Cochran gave her was one of cold fury. “Your reckless behaviour…your tendency to completely disregard the rules…I can’t decide whether they help or hinder what we’re trying to do.”

“We won the battle, ma’am,” Jyn said defensively. 

“We’ve won the battle, yes, but _not_ the war. Sure, we’ve stopped the Germans from invading Britain, but they will continue to bomb London. They will continue to bomb our airfields, our factories, our cities, and we’ll continue to bomb _theirs._ Five fighter planes hardly change all that.” 

Had Cochran slapped her it would have felt less painful, but still Jyn refused to look away. She continued staring at the older woman, and did not flinch from her hard gaze. 

“Ma’am, I did what I thought needed to be done. I cannot stand by while the war is being fought and not do _everything_ I possibly can. All I ask is that you punish me and not the others. It was my decision, my idea, _my_ lead.” 

Cochran studied her carefully for a very long moment. There was a bitter twist to the woman’s mouth when she said, “Pack your bags, Miss Erso.”

Jyn had been expecting it, but her heart dropped all the same. “Ma’am - ”

“Pack your bags. A car will be here for you tomorrow evening after dinner. You’re bold, Miss Erso. Maybe too bold. But I’ve always believed that bold women are made for night flying.” Cochran's smile was more like a grimace. “And God help you if you ever disappoint me again, because I promise you I’ll boot you back across the channel myself.”

Jyn suddenly felt faint, as if she had just woken up from a long sleep. “Night - night flying, ma'am?” she stammered. “I don't understand - ”

“From now on, Miss Erso, you won’t just be ferrying planes for the ATA. You’ll also be ferrying personnel.”

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. _That_ was a bit of a mess. 
> 
> All chapter titles are quotes from Shakespeare. Now onto the history, and there’s a lot of it:
> 
> \- The Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) was a British civilian organisation set up during WWII that ferried military aircrafts between factories, maintenance units (MUs), airfields etc. Representatives of 28 countries flew with the ATA, and many of these pilots were women. During the war, the ATA flew 415,000 hours and delivered more than 309,000 aircrafts. Female ATA pilots began receiving equal pay in 1943. Hamble was an all-women ferry pool located near Southampton and Portsmouth. 
> 
> \- ATA pilots usually flew in bad weather conditions, with no radio or other sophisticated equipment. At first, women in the ATA were only allowed to fly non-combat types of aircrafts, but they started flying Hurricanes in July 1941, and Spitfires in August 1941. Of course, I changed this a bit and gave Jyn and co. Hurricanes and Spitfires in 1940 because of Plot. 
> 
> \- The Battle of Britain was when the Royal Air Force (RAF) defended Britain against the Luftwaffe attacks from the end of June 1940 until the end of October 1940. In July, the Luftwaffe mainly targeted coastal-shipping convoys, ports etc., before shifting to RAF airfields and factories in August. Eventually, they started bombing areas of political significance and cities, particularly London (the East End) and Liverpool. The Luftwaffe’s failure in winning air superiority over Britain and overwhelming the RAF forced Hitler to eventually cancel his plan to invade Britain (Operation Sea Lion). Having been defeated in daylight, the Luftwaffe started The Blitz night campaign which lasted until May 1941.
> 
> \- The Battle of Britain Day was a large-scale aerial battle that took place on 15 September, 1940. (Before the fifteenth, the bad weather prevented the two sides from engaging in full-blown combat.) The Luftwaffe launched an attack against London, hoping to draw out the full strength of the RAF and annihilate them in one go. The battle started at around 10 am and lasted until dusk, with around 1,500 aircrafts taking part. In the end, RAF Fighter Command managed to defeat the German raids.
> 
> \- ‘Park’ is Sir Keith Rodney Park, a Royal Air Force commander from New Zealand who was “the Defender of London” during the Battle of Britain. Park was in charge of No. 11 Group RAF, and he personally commanded RAF forces on the Battle of Britain Day. He became embroiled in a dispute with Air Vice Marshall Trafford Leigh-Mallory, commander of 12 Group, over Leigh-Mallory’s 'Big Wing' tactic - meeting incoming bombing raids with a wing-sized formation of three to five squadrons. The effectiveness of the Big Wing approach is still being debated today. 
> 
> \- RAF Northolt was really camouflaged as described in the chapter. Many squadrons that took part in the Battle of Britain were based here, including the No. 303 Polish Fighter Squadron who had a very distinguished combat record. The Sergeant Jyn meets, Josef Frantisek, was a Czech fighter pilot who flew with the Polish squadron and scored the most “kills” during the battle. There is a Polish War Memorial at Northolt dedicated to all Polish airmen who lost their lives.
> 
> \- On 13 September, 1940, at around 11 am, Buckingham Palace was hit by high explosive bombs from a single German raider. The royal family were not harmed. Jyn’s line regarding the matter is an echo of the Queen’s: "I am glad we have been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face". 
> 
> \- Jacqueline Cochran was an important contributor to the formation of the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP). She really did write all those letters to Eleanor Roosevelt, and she really did serve as a Flight Captain in the ATA before the WASP was formed in America. Aster’s character was inspired by the fact that there really were female Ethiopian pilots in the ATA. Anna Lekis was inspired by Anna Leska, who really did snatch a Polish Air Force plane at an airfield guarded by German soldiers and flew it to Romania. Maureen Dunlop really was an Argentine ATA pilot, and a picture of her pushing her hair out of her face after leaving an aircraft became the front page of a magazine in 1944. Rosemary, however, is an homage to the female characters in the novel _Code Name Verity_ , a huge source of inspiration for this story. 
> 
> \- The song Rosemary sings is a poem by the Scottish poet Robert Burns. 
> 
> ——
> 
> PLEASE do leave me your thoughts or questions. I also welcome film and book recommendations. Opinions on the film ‘Dunkirk’ is even _more_ welcome! [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> .
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “Believe Me, Love, It Was The Nightingale” - in which Jyn and Cassian finally, finally meet again_


	5. Believe Me, Love, It Was The Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jyn and Cassian finally, finally meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the late update, guys! I was on vacation and had no time to write anything! Also, the new Game of Thrones season is currently underway, and like a total loser, I’ve been finding it _very_ hard to concentrate on anything else. I can only hope that this chapter, with the reunion, is worth the wait! 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) as precious and as rare as a well-written Thrones episode. So please leave one if you can!

_**Previously:** Jyn and Cassian meet for the first time in November, 1939 through their friends, Shara and Kes, who are (sort of) seeing each other. The meeting doesn’t go particularly well. In 1940, Cassian, Kay, and Kes manage to escape from Dunkirk after the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) has been pulled out of France. Cassian meets a dying British soldier who leaves him with letters to give to his older brother. Jyn and Shara are amongst the female pilots who ferry planes for the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) in the Battle of Britain. This is how they meet Bodhi, a fellow ATA pilot. Flight Captain Jacqueline Cochran then assigns Jyn to night flying so she can now ferry important personnel for the army. _

* * *

 

_The road of the pass was hard and smooth and not yet dusty in the early morning._

**Ernest Hemingway**

 

* * *

**London, 1940**

 

Cassian had given the older man a salute the minute he spotted him. Despite the man’s ordinary appearance, Cassian was not easily fooled; he could tell right away that Davits Draven was no ordinary solider. Everything was all too deftly done: their meeting place which was not too crowded or too empty, their table from where the pub’s entrance was always in sight, the shrewd unsmiling way their greeting was conducted. 

It had taken Cassian weeks to get in contact with the man. He managed to find a telephone number through his acquaintances in the army, but had to call it more than thrice before someone picked up. Even then, he was given a different number. And when he called _that_ one, he was given _another_ number. When Davits Draven himself finally picked up the phone, Cassian no longer had time to waste, and immediately began giving his name and his purpose. Afterward, the man became silent for a very long moment, Cassian thought he had not heard.

When Draven finally spoke, his tones were devoid of any emotion. “Letters? From my brother?”

“Yes, sir,” Cassian replied carefully. “I could mail them to you, sir. If you would only give me an address - ”

“No. No address. We’ll meet.” 

“Sir?” 

“We’ll meet. And you’ll give those letters to me in person.” 

Before Cassian could say anything else, Draven had given him a time and a place, and hung up. So here they were in a dingy pub, with the letters still unopened on the table between them, while Draven sipped on a cup of tea. The waiter put down a plate of fish and chips before him, and he proceeded to pick and nibble on one stringy strand of chip like he could not be anymore disinterested in its taste. 

“So…how did my brother die?” he asked as if they were merely discussing the food. 

Cassian had the answer ready. “He died during a counterattack against the Germans in Wormhoudt, sir. He gave me these letters before we went into battle. I wanted him to stay behind, he was so young, but he refused to listen and insisted on coming along. He was…he was fighting close to me when it happened. One bullet in the side, another in the chest. It was very quick. He died bravely, sir.” 

The older man spun the spoon in his tea cup around with fingers that were both lazy and deft. He took another sip of his drink, and regarded Cassian quietly for a long moment. His eyes were a soft blue, but still and empty like the bottom of a well. 

“You lie very well, Captain.”

Cassian cocked his head sideways. “Sir? I did not lie - ”

“You lie very well. If I hadn’t known my brother, I would have believed it. My brother was many things, Captain, but never brave. In school, he was bullied by a boy in the form above him. He would come to me crying, bleeding, and I would always tell him to fight back. But he never did. He never could.” He lay a hand on the stack of letters. “So I’ll ask you again, Captain. How did my brother die?” 

Cassian did not lower his eyes. “A bullet in the side, sir. He somehow made it through the German lines, and ran into my friends and I outside the town. We tried to bring him to Dunkirk with us, but he bled to death along the way.” 

“And his body?” 

“We left him on the side of the road.” It still hurt Cassian to say the truth out loud, but he had already judged this man to be capable of hearing it. “It was not what we wanted, but we had no time to spare and no shovels to bury him.” 

“Did the lad say anything else before he died?” 

“He said to tell you that he was sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

“For not being brave enough, sir.” Cassian took a sip of his own tea; too watered down and too tasteless because of the rationing. “Then he gave me those letters to give to you. I assumed he had wanted to send them, but never had the chance.”

“Always the romantic, my little brother. Letters, I tell you. _Letters.”_ Draven’s lips curled. “Did he expect me to feel guilty?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Draven drained his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared curiously down at his plate of food. “Strange. I seem to have lost my appetite.” 

Cassian did not know what else he was supposed to say. He let his eyes travel away from Draven to the rest of the people in the pub, then outside to the grey and gloomy streets of London. He was never good at this part of the job, although he knew he should be by now; it was only natural. The bell at the door jingled merrily when another man in uniform entered the pub. No one hardly paid him any attention as he made his way to the bar; a Private who hadn’t yet seen any fighting, Cassian could tell right away. He wondered if the boy would have tears leaking from his eyes when he died like Draven’s brother. 

“Cassian Andor, is it?” Draven remarked suddenly, drawing Cassian’s attention back to him. “You told me your name over the phone.” 

“Yes, sir. Andor.” 

“How many languages do you speak, Andor?”

“Fluently? Two, sir. Spanish and English.”

“German?”

Cassian shrugged. “Not as well as my best friend would like me to, but well enough, sir. I thought I’d best learn some, considering the situation.” 

“French?”

“Only bits and pieces, sir. I can understand it better than I can speak it.” 

Draven studied him for another long moment. “Tell me, Andor. How did a half-Mexican, half-English soldier wound up in the BEF?” 

“Luck, sir.” It was not a lie. Not really. 

“Luck.” Draven’s lips curled again. “Come now, lad, I hate this song and dance. Tell me true. You grew up in Morelos. How old were you when Emiliano Zapata died?” 

For a moment, Cassian thought he had stopped breathing. “You looked up on me.” Then more tightly, “ _sir._ ”

“Of course I looked up on you, you were carrying my brother’s dying letters,” Draven said, waving a dismissive hand. “Now, how old _were_ you?” 

“Six years old.” His throat had become impossibly dry. “Sir.” 

“Your mother. This Englishwoman. Was she a Zapatista too?”

“I don’t know, sir. She died before I could ask her.”

“Your father?”

“Yes.” Cassian swallowed. It was getting harder and harder for him to look at Draven. “Even since before I was born.”

“And how did he die? Fire? Bullets? An explosion?” 

“Does it matter, sir?” He could answer Draven’s other questions, but not this one. _Not this one._

“You had a sister,” said Draven. It was not a question. 

“The Spanish flu, sir. There was an outbreak when I was five. She was too frail. Perhaps it was for the best.”

Draven became silent again, and Cassian’s hand curled into a fist. He wanted nothing more than to drive it through the man’s impassive face and break the hold of those cold calculating eyes. Yet he did nothing. _Could_ do nothing. 

“Tell me,” Draven said, spinning the spoon around once more, “what did this… _revolution_ teach you, Captain Andor?” 

“Revolution? What revolution, sir?” Cassian made himself sneer. “I wasn’t part of any revolution.”

“You weren’t? Born in Morelos, and with two dead parents and one dead sibling?” Draven placed his hand on his brother’s letters once more. “Come now, Captain. I thought we were done with lies.”

Cassian looked at him again - at the hard line of his mouth and the knowing look in his eyes - and heard himself say, “I learned that we can’t win by playing fair. Sir.” 

A shadow of a smile grazed Draven’s lips. He gave Cassian an approving nod. “You’re wasted in the BEF, Captain.”

 

* * *

 

Cassian told no one of this strange meeting until two days later. It was evening when he arrived at the flat in Russell Square.

If he remembered it correctly, the place had belonged to a great-aunt of Kay’s. She had died childless, and so it had been passed down to his friend, who used it only sparingly and only when he absolutely had to. Kay had given Cassian a key many years ago; he used it to let himself in, making sure not to damage the rusted lock in the process. 

Inside everything looked even older and even more bleak than he remembered from the last time he was here. Every stair and floorboard creaked with history. A threadbare carpet covered the marble floor, and there were no pictures on the walls, no comfortable rocking chairs, no warm earthy smells of home. But the worst part was the cold, Cassian reflected. It was alway too cold here. Even in summer. 

Cassian discovered that the electricity had died when he tried to switch on the lights in the foyer. And when he finally located Kay in the sitting room, his friend had a candle by him as he flipped through a giant leather bound book. The couch he was sitting on looked to be more than a hundred years old. 

“How’s Dameron?” Cassian asked in way of greeting. He flung himself into a nearby armchair.

Kay barely registered his entrance; only an eyebrow was raised in his direction. “Better. He can go up the stairs without any help now. Only he still talks too bloody much.”

“That's not a surprise.”

“You look exhausted.” 

“Thank you, Kay.” 

“You look like you haven’t eaten in days.” 

“Well, the rationing doesn’t help.”

“Humour has never been your strong suit, Cassian, so stop trying,” Kay drawled. “I wasn’t expecting you to show up here, that’s all.”

“Where did you think I was going to go?”

“I don’t know. Out? Somewhere else?” His friend shrugged. “I had assumed you would be searching for more…beguiling company. It has been a while.”

Cassian scowled. “We’ve talked about this, Kay. It is strange when you talk about these things. And how do you even _know_ \- ”

“I just do. And you haven’t answered my question.” 

Cassian grunted. “Not in the mood, Kay.” He drew out a cigarette and his lighter from his pocket.

“Are you not in the mood for my questions, or are you not in the mood for women?”

Cassian winced at his friend’s bluntness. “Both.” He lit the cigarette and breathed in deeply, and then exhaled with a satisfied sigh. _I’ve missed this. The stillness._ But Kay did not leave him to his thoughts for long; he heard his friend close his book. 

“What is it, Cassian?” 

Cassian paused, and then took another long drag from his cigarette. _Curious,_ he thought. _I’ve forgotten how it felt to be asked a question I want to answer._

He took his time telling Kay about his meeting with Davits Draven, going over some details even more than twice. By the time he was done, it had become completely dark outside, and Kay had to go pull down the blackout blinds in the windows. The blond man said nothing while he lit more candles, basking the ancient room in soft yellow light. His shadows danced queerly on the walls as he moved. 

“So…” Cassian prompted, “what do you think?”

Kay frowned, sinking onto the floor beside Cassian’s armchair. “Strange.”

“I already know it’s strange, Kay, I was hoping for a little more insight than that.”

Kay reached over to take a cigarette from Cassian’s pack and lit it with his own lighter. “Well…the question about the languages, for a start. _Strange.”_

“How many times are you going to say the word ‘strange’?” 

“At least once more. _Strange.”_

Cassian scoffed. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. What do you make of the man?”

“Intelligence, I think. The chap could only be intelligence. Otherwise, how would he know about your family?”

“I thought so too. It might be a…recruitment, of sorts. I know they’re short on personnel in that department; they’ve been taking on almost anyone with half a brain.” 

“ _I_ would recruit you if I were him.” 

“You make it sound like it’s a compliment,” Cassian said bitterly. 

Kay thought hard for a moment, and replied slowly, “It takes a certain kind of man to be a spy. You are that kind of man. But whether that is a compliment or not, I can’t possibly tell you.” 

Cassian found himself pausing at his friend’s honesty; he had thought as much himself ever since he met with Draven. The questions the older man had asked him had been bothering him much more than he thought they should. Those things they discussed...they happened many years ago now, all in the past. He kept telling himself that the dead should never rule the living. Yet here they were, still ruling him. 

What did he learn from the revolution? _Too much,_ he reflected, the memories clawing at his insides like maggots. _I learned too much._

Cassian had always known himself to be a man with a certain history, a certain set of experiences, and a certain set of skills. They were useful for war, he’d come to learn, but they were also…

“A curse,” he heard himself saying out loud. “It’s more like a curse.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” Kay remarked dryly. “But yes, I suppose. If you look at it from a certain point of view.”

“A certain point of view?”

Kay shrugged.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, sighing. He stared up at the peeling walls, and the heads stared back down at him, huge and stuffed and dead: the deer and the elks and the boars. “I keep telling you to take them down,” he told his friend as he watched the smoke trail up to those heads. 

“I keep forgetting,” said Kay. “And I don’t mind them. I never thought _you_ would.”

_It’s the eyes,_ Cassian thought. _Those bloody eyes. They keep looking at me._ But he did not say it aloud for fear of sounding insane. Even to Kay. 

The next evening, Cassian was the one who found the letter in the foyer. It had been pushed under the door by a stranger. Or a ghost. Or a phantom. He had no way of knowing. There was no name on the envelope, but when he opened it and drew out the paper, he knew at once that it was meant for him. Under the Baker Street address, the words were all too clear: 

_Are you ready to win?_

 

* * *

 

**March, 1941**

 

Shara Bey had loved only a few things in her short young life: her mother, her grandmother, the father she never knew, a good Carole Lombard picture, the Grand Canyon on a sunny day, vanilla ice cream, a friend, a boy who left. What she loved _most_ , however, was how the world looked from the cockpit of an airplane, and the way the sky screamed her name when she soared. But now, as she sat on the edge of Kes Dameron’s bed and saw him asleep with the duvet pulled up to his waist, she was not quite so sure. 

Kes’ breathing came soft and even. His hair was all over the place from sleep and play, and she could still see the marks she had left on his skin. There was one on the column of his neck, another on his right shoulder, scratches on his back where her nails had dragged down. The memory of his touch still lingered on her own flesh, burning, searing. And a part of her wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed with him. To press her lips to his and wake him up all over again. To hear him laugh as he chased her mouth like he had done last night…

But no, she was already dressed and ready, and the sky was already lightening outside. She had a train to catch. 

“You make a bloke feel cheep, you know,” he had teased her yesterday when they met at Charring Cross station. He was waiting for her on the platform with his hat in his hand. “Come on, do a twirl, show off that uniform you love so much!” 

She laughed. “Oh, don’t be silly, Kes Dameron!”

“Come on. Just a twirl, Bey. Please.” He spread his arms, smiling that charming smile that had won her over in the first place. “A bloke has got to let folks know that his missus is an ATA pilot!”

“I’m _not_ your missus, stupid!” 

He just laughed. “Twirl!” 

She rolled her eyes at him, but obliged. A quick spin later, she was in his arms, and he was kissing her breathless. “Missed you,” he said when they broke apart. There was something much more tender in his gaze when he looked down at her then. 

She made herself smile teasingly. “I can’t say the same, to be honest.” 

“Oh, you can’t, can you?” He chuckled a little, and cupped her cheek with one hand. “Had a lot of fun while we’re apart?”

“Of course I did. I’m _wildly_ popular.”

“I’m sure you are, God help me. Come along, Bey.” 

She hooked her arm through his and they made their way down the street together, him limping a little in a way that made her heart clench painfully. She hadn’t wanted to come, she reminded herself. She hadn’t want to see him like this, and to be reminded that he had missed her with a fervour he did not care to mask. She had wanted...well, she had wanted many things, each as different from the last as the sun and the moon. 

Yet here she was. Captured.

_You silly man_ , she thought, and reached out to touch a strand of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes. _If men were evil, why had God made them so irresistible?_

Her own touch betrayed her. It made him stir and open his eyes. A sleepy but confused smile touched his lips when he saw her.

“You’re dressed.” 

“And you’re not. Which is incredibly distracting.” 

“Is it now?” He rolled over on his back, letting the duvet slip further down his body. 

She groaned, and slapped him playfully on the chest. “You’re such a tease, Kes Dameron!”

“I am what you made me, love. Come on. Stay a while. We still have time.”

“No, we don’t. I have to catch the bus, and then the train, and then _another_ bus.” 

“We only had one day together.” 

_No. A day, a night, and a few hours before the sun had fully risen,_ she thought. _That’s plenty._ She shook her head. “I have to go, don’t you see, you idiot? Cochran is going to go ballistic if I’m late. I no longer have Jyn to help me talk my way out of every misdemeanour.” 

“How _is_ Jyn, by the way?” Kes rolled over to grab a cigarette from his bedside and light it. 

“I don’t know. I hardly see her. Our hours are so different now.” She spotted an earring she had dropped on the floor, and went to pick it up. Kes, with the cigarette still clamped between his teeth, began to sit up in the bed and reached around for his clothes. “What are you doing?” she asked him, puzzled. 

“Getting dressed.” 

“ _Why_ are you getting dressed?” 

“I know you fancy me more with my clothes _off_ , Bey, but I’m a civilised man, I’ll have you know.” He pulled on his trousers and began looking for his shirt. “I’m getting dressed so I can come send you off, genius, what’d you think?”

“Oh.” The word came out more like a squeak. “What about your meeting?” His friend Cassian Andor had arranged for him to meet some high-ranking officer, so that he would have something different to do for the war effort now that his leg was lame. 

Kes shrugged, but he looked disgruntled at the mention of the meeting. His good-natured expression had turned into a frown. “It is not till the afternoon. I have time.” 

Shara quickly seized on the chance to keep the conversation on safe grounds. “Do you have any idea what the meeting will be about?”

“Andor mentioned something about Africa. Which makes sense now that we’ve taken Tobruk. But I suppose we shall see.”

“Does that mean they’re going to send you away? To somewhere with deserts and palm trees and pyramids?” 

He flashed her a half-teasing smile as he shook out the creases in his shirt. “Why? Would you miss me?” 

“I doubt it. You’ve already worn out your welcome by insisting on going _everywhere_ with me…”

“Not _everywhere_ ,” he admonished, chuckling. “Just to the train station to send you off.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“You say that a lot, you know,” said Kes, his voice suddenly bitter. There was a small smile on his lips, but it was a humourless one. He got to his feet, his shirt in his hand. 

“I say what a lot?”

“ _You don’t have to._ ” 

“No, I don’t,” she snapped, looking away. 

“Yes, you do.” He rolled his eyes. “‘Do you want to dance?’ You don’t have to. ‘Do you want me to come visit you at Hamble?’ You don’t have to. ‘Do you want me to write you?’ _You don’t have - ”_

“Yes, alright, I get the point.” 

“I’m only saying that it’s…” He sighed. “You can allow me to be nice to you every once in a while, it’s not going to kill you.” 

_That_ hurt. She stood up, and glared at him. “That’s not what this is it about.” 

“Is it?” 

“You’re being silly.”

“Am I?” 

“You know perfectly well what you’re doing, Kes Dameron. And I hate it.” 

He gave a weary sigh, shook his head, and looked away. “Alright, just forget I ever said anything then. It doesn’t matter.” 

He pulled on his shirt, and began looking for his shoes. She spotted the left one under her side of the bed, but decided not to tell him. She knew she should just let it go, but the anger that rose up inside her had become too fierce to ignore. 

“You’ve changed,” she accused him suddenly. “You came back, and you’ve… _changed.”_

The look Kes gave her was so full of fury, it took her aback. “I’ve _changed?”_ he said, his voice thick with contempt. “Well, I’m sorry that nearly dying and nearly losing my leg robbed me of my sense of humour.”

“That’s not what I meant. We’re supposed to be friends.” 

He scoffed. “ _Friends._ ” 

“Aren’t we?” The question was a challenge. Not a plea. And it drew a harsh bark of laughter from him. 

“I don’t know, Shara, you tell me. If you want us to be mates, then we’ll be mates. If you want us to be lovers, we’ll be lovers. But here’s the bloody conundrum, can’t you see? _You_ don’t know what you want.” 

Her heart was beating so loud, it was about to jump out of her chest. _He can hear it,_ she thought desperately. _I bet he can hear it._ She struggled for words, but none came. And she simply stood there, looking at him in all his half-dressed, angry, and disappointed glory.

“You’re scared,” said Kes, a smile toying at his lips. “You’re scared, because you know I love you.” 

“Don’t say that,” she snapped at him. _Fuck. It’s not supposed to go this way. It’s not supposed to go this way at all!_ She bit on her bottom lip, trying not to cry.

“I love you, and you love me, and if we would only just - ”

“Stop it, you idiot! You’re ruining everything, can’t you _see?_ ” The tears began to fall, and she wiped them away furiously. _I have a train to catch. I just want to catch my train._ “Why do you have to be such a…such a…” 

“Such a nuisance? Yes, it seems I’m an expert at being a nuisance to you. Andor warned me against it, but I never bloody listen!” 

“Andor? What does _Cassian Andor_ have to do with anything?” 

Kes scoffed. “He keeps telling me that this is all a mistake, but I keep disagreeing. He says I should give up. But _I_ say when you commit to doing something, you commit to going all the way or don’t do it at all.” 

She shook her head, lost. “What are you on about?”

He laughed, and it was a wild, mad laugh that confused her even more. She did not know whether he was laughing at her, or at himself, or at them both. His hand jumped to his hair as though he was about to tear it out. _Has he gone insane?_ she thought. 

He whirled away from her and marched over to his bedside. He began pulling open the drawers, sending papers, pencils, cigarettes, and ties flying in every direction. She walked over to him, hesitant, but still wiping away tears with the back of her hand. 

“Kes, what on earth - ”

“Hah! Found the little bugger!” 

And before Shara knew what was happening, he had gone to one knee before her, the box clutched tightly in his hand. 

Her heart stopped.

“ _Kes -_ ”

“Shara, will you marry me?”

 

* * *

 

Bodhi Rook found Hamble in an uproar when he touched down in the Lysander.

“ - heard there was a thousand bombs - ”

“ - it’s the factories, it’s always the factories - ”

“ - is it four hundred? Five hundred? Goodness me, I can’t even _imagine_ \- ”

“ - surely, Thirteen Group would have sent some Hurricanes - ”

“ - two got shot down, and how many more, I don’t - ”

He wanted to stop at the first table in the mess hall - where a group of British female ATA pilots and a young male cadet sat - and demand the full updates. But he did not know any of them well enough. Sure, he had seen some of them around before, in various airfields when he ferried planes, but they would think him an intruder for interrupting. So he walked on, scanning the room for a friendly face. 

Jyn Erso’s face was far from a friendly one. She sat alone at the back of the mess hall, spooning something which looked like vegetable stew into her mouth. She violently tore off a chunk of bread as Bodhi approached, and simply gave him a nod in greeting. There were deep dark circles under her eyes, he noticed. 

“Hello, Bodhi. It’s been a while.”

“It has, hasn’t it?”

Bodhi gave her a warm but uncertain smile as he sat down across from her. He had liked Jyn ever since they met a year ago, after he had been traumatised from his plane nearly getting shot down west of London. They had kept in touch ever since, via letters mostly, and had seen each other sporadically whenever their paths crossed in the ATA. But there were still things about Jyn that she kept to herself, and Bodhi had never been one to ask questions he knew he was not meant to ask. 

Jyn soaked the piece of bread she’d torn off in the brown stew. “How are you doing, Bodhi?” 

“I…I’m doing…as well as can be expected.” 

“Your mother?” It was just like Jyn to go straight for the bull’s eye.

 _Still dying,_ Bodhi longed to say, but answered, “She’s alright, really. She’s getting better.” But the way Jyn looked at him told him that she was not fooled.

“How long are you staying?”

“Five hours, at least. There’s - there’s a Tiger Moth I’m supposed to take with me when I leave.” He glanced around at the crowded room. “Where are you friends?” 

“Shara’s in London, Anna’s out ferrying a Spitfire, and Aster’s…Aster’s with Rosemary.” 

The careful way in which Jyn said the Scottish’s girl name told him everything. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Have they been…more news in the last couple of hours while I was in the air?” Lately, it seemed to be a question he had to ask often. 

Jyn shook her head, pushing away her bowl of food. For the first time since Bodhi had sat down, a worried look stole into Jyn’s tired expression. “The raids have ceased, we know that much at least. But that’s not _really_ news. It _should_ stop by now; it’s been two days.”

“Any updates on the - the damage?” 

Jyn winced. “The shipyards weren’t decimated, but the body count is up to five hundred now.”

Bodhi felt cold all over. This was bad. Very bad. It might even be the worst destruction and loss of civilian life for Scotland in this war. When they had first heard the news coming down from the north, not many of the ATA pilots had known where Clydebank was. But after an hour or two, they had all learnt how far the town was from Glasgow, as well as all the names of the rivers surrounding it. 

“Rosemary…” said Bodhi carefully. “She - she hasn’t heard anything, has she?” He had spoken to the Scottish girl only once or twice, but every time she had been kind and patient with him. 

“From her brother? No.” Jyn scoffed impatiently. “There should be word by now. Jamie’s a fighter pilot, for fuck’s sake, and _we’re_ working for the bloody RAF, aren’t we?” 

“Did he - ?”

“Last we heard was that he was amongst the Hurricane pilots who flew from Glasgow to meet the German bombers. Since then…” Jyn shrugged. “Since then, still nothing.”

Bodhi glanced around again. Many of the pilots were now getting up, having finished their supper. Jyn, however, tore off another chunk of bread and nibbled on it absentmindedly. 

Bodhi began cautiously, “Jyn, you look - you look…” 

“You’re allowed to say I look ghastly, Bodhi.” 

“Not ghastly, no! Never ghastly!” Bodhi spluttered, horrified.

Jyn gave him a pointed look. “Admit it. I look ghastly, like I haven't slept in months. I look like a bloody skeleton.”

“Well…you do look…a bit exhausted.”

“Exhausted. That’s the word for it.” She lifted up her piece of bread. “Cheers.” 

“How’s the….the night flying?” 

Last year, Flight Captain Cochran had sent Jyn away for night flying training. She’d come back more determined than ever but distinctly more wearied. And judging from her current appearance, it seemed her new task had been taking its toll. 

Jyn frowned, jabbing the bread into the stew as if it were a foe. “Challenging,” she told him. “I have another flight tonight. I thought I would catch some sleep, but with this Clydebank business and Rosemary bawling her eyes out…I haven’t had the time.” 

The question slipped out before he could stop himself. “Do you think - do you think _I_ can do it?”

“Do what? Night flying?” Jyn studied him, bewildered. Then she shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I’ve seen you fly, Bodhi. You’re good.” 

Bodhi blushed. “You’ve seen me nearly lost my mind after - after getting shot at _once_.” 

Jyn’s expression softened. “Bodhi, you’re too hard on yourself. You were _ferrying_ a plane, not going into battle. And there was no way you could have seen them coming. If you really wanted to do night flying, I don’t see why you can’t. It’s not easy, I can tell you that much, but you’re - ” Suddenly, she glimpsed something over his shoulder that stopped her mid-sentence. “Bodhi, I’m so sorry, but we’ll have to talk later.” 

Bodhi turned around and saw Aster standing in the entrance of the mess hall. One glance at the Ethiopian’s face was enough to make his skin crawl. _Rosemary. Her brother._ He wanted to get up too, but Jyn was faster; she was already on her feet, and had begun striding toward her friend.

“Jyn - ”

She glanced back at him with something akin to guilt in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Bodhi, but we’ll talk later, yeah? I have to - I have to go.” 

And Bodhi was left alone once more with his thoughts. 

 

* * *

 

Night descended as quietly as a thief, and the sky began to weep. 

Jyn looked upward and let the droplets sting her eyes. _Just my luck,_ she thought. _I have to fly in the dark_ and _in the rain. Tonight…of all nights._

This airfield was a small one. Half the size of Hamble, she judged. Her Puss Moth was the only plane here, and only a single building stood not far off. It was there that the car had parked; it had dark-tinted windows and a London license plate. Her passenger for the night was taking his sweet time getting out of it, though. And after a while she began to grow bored of waiting, so she threw away her cigarette and climbed up into the cockpit. She hoped the man would be smart enough to get into the plane by himself; she couldn’t see why the SOE would have bothered with him at all if he didn’t have a brain. 

The rain fell harder while she waited. She wondered who the sky was weeping for tonight. Perhaps these tears were for Rosemary, the poor desolated Scottish girl whom Jyn had left still sobbing into her pillow. Or maybe they were for her brave brother, who had died in Clydebank. Or for them all. She wished she knew for certain. 

Fleetingly, she wondered if Rosemary would ever sing again now that her closest friend in the entire world was dead. She wondered… 

No. It was best not to wonder. 

She found her thoughts straying to Bodhi, even though she did not want to think about Bodhi at all. _I have to make it up to him somehow._ She pressed her lips together. _Even when I try to be kind, I still can’t help but be a bitch._

She began to regret having thrown away her cigarette. 

“Good evening.” She hadn’t heard her passenger coming. Somehow he had slipped into the seat behind her without making much of a sound. 

“Evening,” she told him curtly, shaking away her thoughts.

The pilots were not supposed to converse with their passengers for secrecy’s sake, but greetings were allowed. Just barely. Over the roaring of the engines she shouted the location of the first-aid kit and instructions for the emergency exit. She heard him rummaging around, probably checking to see that everything was where she was telling him they were. And they did not speak again until they were airborne. 

Below them were the shadows of a forest, and the light of the moon reflected off the surface of a river, creating golden ripples like tiny stars. Then almost faintly, she heard him say, “You don’t remember me, do you?” 

She frowned, surprised he had spoken at all; usually night flights were conducted in silence. “Am I supposed to?” she asked. 

“We met. Two years ago. In London.” 

That tone. That accent. _Bloody hell!_ For a moment the world seemed to spin. She could have sworn her hands were slipping away from the controls. “Cassian Andor,” she breathed, but dared not turn around. 

“Hello, Jyn.” 

Jyn felt herself blush as the memory came rushing back to her. “Hello, Cassian,” she said, her voice tight. 

“Are you still angry with me?” He sounded irritated, but amused as well. 

“Are you still angry with _me?”_ She had lashed out at him, she remembered. Out of pride more than anything, even though that night his touch had felt so warm when he caught her. 

“Two years is a long time to hold a grudge,” Cassian Andor said tonelessly. “Is this a coincidence or a dream?” 

“A bloody nightmare, I think.” 

He let out a laugh. The sound was surprisingly warm, as though he didn’t laugh often, and it made her turn around despite herself. 

He almost looked the same, she thought; the same attractive cheekbones, the same curve of the mouth, the same hair. His beard was thicker, though, and he appeared leaner and more hungry-looking. _But his eyes_ …they were tired before in her memory, but they were even more tired now, as though they had seen things that no human should ever see.

“I heard from Shara that you’re alive,” Jyn managed to say. 

He shrugged as though it made no difference. “I heard from Kes that you fought in the Battle of Britain.” 

“I _ferried_ planes in the Battle of Britain,” she corrected, and looked back ahead to the darkness and the rain. “That hardly counts as fighting. I didn’t do anything heroic. Just what was expected of me, and what had to be done.” She paused for a second. “How’s Kes?”

“Better. He can walk without a crutch now. And his spirits are up.” 

“Shara’s with him now. She has a few days off.” 

“Then I suppose those spirits are going to be raised even higher.” 

She nearly smiled at that. “So you’re a…what are you now?” He must be _something._ Although she was not allowed to speak to her night passengers, she would have to be totally dense not to realise that they were important.

“I can’t tell you,” he answered. 

“Are you a spy?”

“I’m a Captain.”

“What does a Captain do?”

“Careless talk - ”

“Cost lives, I know.” She rolled her eyes, and they lapsed into silence. The only sounds were the gentle beating of the rain and the soft purring of the engines. She swooped the aircraft a little to the right. 

“There,” she said. “Look. The Thames.” 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to point these things out to me, you know,” he remarked. “I’m not supposed to know where you’re taking me.” 

“The Thames is nearly four hundred kilometres long. Just seeing a part of it won’t tell you where we are.” 

She heard him moving over to the window. There was another quiet moment before he said, “It looks different at night.”

“Everything looks different at night.” 

Suddenly she felt a breath trickled the back of her neck like wisps of delicate silk. For some reason Cassian had leaned forward, reducing the space between them. Her heart seemed to have jumped to her throat. 

“That night…” Cassian said quietly behind her. “Back in London. I’m sorry if I offended you.” 

“You didn’t offend me.”

“Well, you acted like I did.”

“I was drunk. And sad. And angry.” 

“Are you not angry now? You look angry.” 

“How can you tell? You can’t even see my face!” 

“Are we going to fight again?” 

“I don’t know. Are we?” 

He sighed. “This bickering is pointless. I just wanted to apologise. That’s all.” She felt him lean back, the tension between them lessening somewhat. And she let out a long steady breath as if she were coming up for air. 

Eventually, she said rather quietly, “I’m…I’m sorry too, I suppose.” 

They did not speak again until they arrived at their destination; a medium-sized military based with two three-story buildings and five small huts. There was an old barn next to the airstrip, and a Gypsy Moth at the end of it. Only a few lights twinkled from the windows. Other than that, the whole place could have been deserted. 

Cassian did not move to leave the cockpit after she had turned off the engines. 

_Should I say something?_ she thought desperately. _Does he_ want _me to say something?_ But all she could manage was, “I’ll be in the waiting room. Come get me when you’re done. I’m supposed to take you back.”

Another moment of silence passed between them. Then she heard him move. “Alright,” he said, almost business-like. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours then.” 

And suddenly he was gone. 

Jyn spent the next four hours in the cold empty waiting room, trying to sleep. But whenever she started drifting off, it was Rosemary’s face she saw, stained with tears. Then it was Bodhi’s, sad and lonely. And sometimes it was her mother’s, or her father’s. But other times it was Cassian Andor’s. There was no smile, no laughter; he simply looked at her, grave and still. She hated his face with a vengeance then, and decided she would rather stay awake than see it again and again. 

So it was that when he came to collect her, she was wide-eyed and ready, although bone-tired. He, however, looked even more haggard than _she_ herself felt. His expression was pained, and there was a slightly laborious quality to his walk as he followed her back to the Puss Moth.

After he had settled into his seat inside the cockpit, he leaned back and closed his eyes. 

“Cassian - ”

But he did not seem to hear her, and slept the entire journey back.

* * *

There were thin strips of pink and orange along the horizon when the wheels of the Puss Moth touched the ground. Jyn could feel the impact jerking him awake, but still he did not say anything as he moved around, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

It was until the plane had stopped completely when he finally said, “Jyn, I just want - ”

She pretended not to hear, however, and vaulted herself out of the cockpit. Shara would have laughed at her immaturity, but her friend should be the last person in the world to judge. 

Cassian quickly scrambled out after her. 

“Jyn, listen, we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“ _Twice_. We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot _twice._ It’s probably an omen of some kind, even though I don’t believe in omens. Just because our mates are sleeping with each other doesn’t mean _we_ have to get along.” She tore off her gloves, and then her goggles. Her hands were shaking a little with anger. Or was it embarrassment? Again she couldn’t be sure. “Is that your commanding officer over there? I think you should hurry along, Captain. We’re not supposed to talk to each other on these flights, remember?” 

Cassian turned around, and spotted the black car that had drawn her attention. A tall blond man in uniform was standing by it, his arms crossed. “He’s not - he’s not my commanding officer,” Cassian told her quickly. “He’s my runner. He’s a friend.” 

“Whoever he is, he doesn’t seem pleased to see me.” Jyn could feel the blond man’s suspicious stare even from this far away. “And again - we’re not supposed to talk.” 

“We talked on the way to the base.” 

“Because you were awake then.” 

His mouth thinned into a stubborn line. “I was tired on the way back.”

“It was rude.” 

“I didn’t think you’d care.” 

“Well, maybe I did,” she snapped before she could stop herself. 

The harshness of her tone seemed to have stumped him. He rubbed his chin awkwardly.  “I just…I just want to say thank you, that’s all. For the flight, and for the walk that night.” He paused, then looked into her eyes, capturing her there. “And I want to apologise. Again. For all the…the awkwardness, and for all the doom and gloom. For being _rude._ ” He gave a dry laugh. “I’m a solider, Jyn. We’re all bloody useless at being human.”

She glared at him. “Don’t you think _I_ might be useless too?” 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible.” 

It was so ridiculous, she had to laugh. She felt her anger drifting away as if it were nothing but summer snow. “You’re a strange one, Cassian Andor,” she told him. 

“I’ll take that. _Strange._ I’ve been called worse things.” 

“It doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

He shrugged. “To be honest, I’ve already forgotten what we’re fighting about.” 

He hadn't meant it as joke, she knew; he was deadly serious. But she found herself smiling all the same. “This is the worst apology I’ve ever heard.” 

“It should be. I haven’t made many apologies in my life so I haven’t had much practice.” 

“Now I know what got you through Dunkirk,” she said sarcastically. “Your amazing sense of humour.” 

His smile dropped, and the expression on his face suddenly shifted to a conflicted one. He looked as if he were teetering on the edge of some dangerous cliff, unsure if he should take a leap. 

She frowned at the sudden change. “Cassian? Is something - ” 

“I thought of you,” he said. “When I was in France, I thought of you.” 

Jyn’s breath came out as a gasp. _Say something, you bloody idiot! Say something!_ But what could she possibly say? 

For half a heartbeat, she wished they were back in the plane, with nothing but the rain and the humming of the engines and the endless night sky still ahead of them. They should have had proper a conversation then. Maybe they would have finally gotten to know each other at last…

She was about to tell him that. Or a version of that, at least. But it was too late. The sun was already rising, and he was already walking away. 

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapter titles are quotes from Shakespeare. Now onto the history, which there’s not a lot of in this chapter: 
> 
> \- At the start of the war (in 1939), Cassian is 26 years old like he is in the film, which means he’s born in 1913. This was in the middle of the Mexican Revolution. His hometown (at least the hometown I gave him) of Morelos was a significant state in the conflict. Emiliano Zapata, a leading figure in the revolution, was from this state, and had control of it until he died in 1919. The rebels who followed him were called Zapatistas. Having Cassian embroiled in this revolution from a young age is my attempt at giving him a background that’s somewhat similar to his canon counterpart. 
> 
> \- Draven asking if Cassian’s father had died from ‘fire’ and Cassian’s own memory of his father in the Dunkirk chapter are a reference to what actually happened in Morelos. Many of Zapata’s enemies employed a scorched earth policy in the area, burning villages and forcibly removing their inhabitants. As for Cassian’s dead sister, there really was a Spanish flu outbreak in 1918. It decimated Morelos, with a quarter of the population dying from the illness. 
> 
> \- 64 Baker Street was the headquarters of the Special Operations Executive (SOE), hence their nickname ‘the Baker Street Irregulars’. There will be more on the SOE and its missions as the story goes on. 
> 
> \- Kes’ mention of Tobruk is a reference to what happened on January 22, 1941, when Australian and British forces captured Tobruk, a port city in Libya, from the Italians. There might be more on this as the story goes on. We shall see. 
> 
> \- The Clydebank Blitz took place on the nights of 13 and 14 March, 1941. Clydebank, a shipbuilding town near Glasgow, was hit with over 1,000 bombs from a total of 439 German bombers. The town suffered the worst destruction and civilian loss of life in all of Scotland, with 528 people losing their lives. Rosemary’s brother biting the dust is a tribute of sorts to the RAF fighter pilots who were there, and managed to shoot down two enemy aircrafts during the raid. 
> 
> \- There are a few mentions of food rationing in this chapter. Tea was indeed rationed in the UK, along with bacon, ham, sugar, meat, cheese, butter etc. Fish was not rationed, however, even though it was a rare commodity during the war, and there were long queues at fish and chip shops. War time chips were also considered below standard, because of the low quality of the fat that was available. 
> 
> \- Massive, _massive_ shoutout to the novel _Code Name Verity_ by Elizabeth E. Wein, who’s also writing a Star Wars novel called _The Last Jedi Cobalt Squadron_ about Rose Tico and other bomber pilots and technicians in The Resistance. I know I’ve said this before, but _Code Name Verity_ is such a HUGE inspiration for my story and I can never recommend it enough! 
> 
> \- Some of Kes' dialogue is a nod to this passage from the novel _Star Wars: Before the Awakening_ : "But if [Poe's] mother had taught him to fly and to love it, his father had taught him that when you commit to doing something, you commit to going all the way or don’t do it at all."
> 
> ——
> 
> PLEASE do leave me your thoughts or questions. [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> .
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “What A Fool Honesty Is” - in which Kes and Shara make decisions, while Cassian and Jyn make romance_


	6. What A Fool Honesty Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kes and Shara make decisions, while Cassian and Jyn make romance (of a sort).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, WE HAVE MADE IT HALFWAY! I can’t believe it! *faints from exhaustion* I would like to dedicate this monstrous - yes, _monstrous_ \- chapter to **Wolf_Storm, imsfire, OhMaven, Yavemiel, manzakine, TricksandNonsense, Imentet, Hazelmist, skitzofreak,** and so, so many others who have read and commented so faithfully. I’m sorry if I forgot to mention anyone. I assure you that I appreciate every single review. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without all of your support, enthusiasm, and love for history. I am truly, truly grateful. 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than Miranda Lambert’s _The Weight of These Wings_. ~~(No, seriously, go listen to it. The whole album is a thing of beauty.)~~ So please leave one if you can!

_**Previously:** In 1941, Kes Dameron proposes to Shara Bey. Cassian is recruited into the Baker Street Irregulars by Davits Draven. He is flown around the country by night to conduct secret missions. This is how he is reunited with Jyn, who is an ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary) pilot ferrying important passengers. Bodhi Rook has a sick mother, Rosemary Stuart has lost her fighter pilot brother in a bombing in Scotland, and the ATA’s Flight Captain Jacqueline Cochran is writing letters to Washington in the hope of forming an all-female pilot unit in the States. That’s it. That’s all you need to know. _

* * *

 

_But in war, time is so precious to the young people._

**Mrs. Miniver (1942),** directed by William Wyler

 

* * *

 

**July, 1942**

**England**

 

If you are the sort of person who has read the right books, you would know that the most famous love stories are the ones that have changed the world. The ones that have launched a thousand ships, brought down a kingdom, slain a dragon. That have made kings and queens and unmade them. That have left a mark on the fabric of history. 

But there are also other romances we humans tend to forget. The ones that are born from quietness, blossoming slowly from the earth like the first rose in springtime. The first splash of colour in a grey, white world. Love is sometimes like this: it sneaks up on you unawares. And before you know where you are, you are already falling. 

In 1942, the Princess Elizabeth had registered for war service, America had joined the fight, and Egypt had become a battle ground. And one of our love stories was about to take root, while another was about to die. 

 

 

 

Jyn Erso stood gasping for breath while she listened to her friends argue. Their voices rose and fell, as shrill and sharp as the gust of wind that blew pass. 

“You’re killing us out there, Bey!” yelled Anna Lekis “Are you completely useless? You’re supposed to _save_ the bloody ball, not stand and watch as it rolled into the back of the net!”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Lekis! You can barely run up the wing! It must be because of those cigarettes you keep smoking!” 

“At least I stopped the fat one from shooting, you simply left the goal open for Halliday!” 

Shara Bey gasped. “I did no such thing!” 

“It would have been more forgivable had the ball bounced off your arse and rolled in!” 

“Why, you fucking hypocrite!” 

Anna Lekis pushed right into Shara’s face. “Do you want to say that again, Bey? I’ll knock you down, I swear I will!” 

Jyn sighed. She gathered her strength and raised her voice to a shout. “Shut it! Both of you! SHUT IT!” Although both her friends were taller than her, they seemed to shrink in size as she thundered at them. “I don’t care who’s to blame for the goals. It’s in the past, we can’t change it! But so help me God, if any of you - I mean _any_ of you - let it one more, I’m going to carve out your heart and eat it for supper.”

Shara rounded on her, aghast. “Jyn, it’s a just five-a-side game. With _friends._ ” She pointed to the other five ATA women who were grouped on the other side of Hamble’s small and patchy field. 

It was all a rather dismal sight, Jyn had to admit. The plan had sounded more promising when they decided on it in the crowded mess hall yesterday. Turned out they did not even have enough volunteers to make up twenty-two players. And they could find no proper-sized goals, just make-shift ones meant for children that someone had unearthed from one of Hamble’s dusty cellars. The football itself hardly had much air in it. As Jyn watched, she saw the one called Halliday, who’d scored _two_ of the goals against them, put a foot on it. A big-boned woman close to thirty, Halliday looked quite pleased with herself as she wiped the sweat from her forehead with a large hand. The sight filled Jyn with contempt.

She turned back to her own teammates. “We are _winning_ this match.”

Rosemary glanced around warily. The Scottish girl had proved a natural on the pitch, and although there were beads of sweat on her face and neck, she did not seem tired. “Jyn, we’re two-one down. They’re destroying us out there.” 

“You scored our only goal, Rosemary. You’re our best chance. Can you score two more?”

“Yes, I can try, but - ”

“I don’t want you to try, I want you to do it.” 

Rosemary stood up a little straighter. “I can if you manage to get the ball to me.”

“I will. Hear that, Anna? You get the ball to her as well.” 

Shara sniggered. “ _If_ Anna can run to the ball.” 

The Polish woman gave Shara a look of loathing. “Only if you save a shot, Bey.” She inclined her head to Jyn. “What should we do with this one, Erso, if you’re such a genius?”

_Replace her_ , Jyn thought. But, of course, they had no one to replace her _with_. “Shara, don’t come up the field,” Jyn told her best friend. “Just stay in front of the goal. Guard it with your life.”

“But you said before the game started that - ”

“I know what I said! But that’s before you let Halliday have a clear shot. From now on, don’t you dare go higher than the half-way line!”

“This is insane,” Shara grumbled. “It’s just a game, for God’s sake! It’s supposed to be fun!” 

“ _Winning_ is fun,” Jyn countered. She turned to the last member of their team. Aster stood quietly by, sipping water from a canteen and wiping her face with a small towel. Jyn’s voice softened when she locked eyes with the older Ethiopian woman. “You’re doing great, Aster, really great, but I think Jade’s right foot is not her best. If you force her to use it - ” 

“ - then I might be able to nick the ball from her more easily.” Aster nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”

“And Rosemary, stay up there. Don’t come down to get the ball. _We’ll_ try and get it to you. All you have to worry about is scoring. And Anna,” she sighed as she whipped around to face the Pole once more, “ _please_ do try and run faster. And if Halliday tries to get pass you again, bring her down.” 

The Pole nodded. But it was Shara who stared wide-eyed at Jyn. “ _Bring her down?_ What does that mean?”

Jyn shrugged. “It means tackle her.” 

“Unbelievable.” Shara scoffed. “Am I the only one who’s _not_ taking this seriously?”

“Yes. And I really don’t appreciate your blasé attitude, Bey. Why did you even volunteer to play?” 

“Because I was bored. And because I had time to spare. And because _you_ forced me to.”

Her friend had the right of it, Jyn knew. But how could she have known that Shara would take the game _this_ lightly? If she had known, she wouldn’t have forced her to join the team at all. “It doesn’t matter now,” Jyn said. “Just stop the ball from going into the back of the net. I don’t care if you have to block it with your pretty face. Just _don’t_ let it in.” She turned to the rest of her team. “Are we clear?” 

They replied in unison, “Yes.” 

She nodded. “Now let’s go win this bloody match.” 

‘Winning this bloody match’ was easier said than done, however. Halliday had another clear shot at goal only ten minutes into the second half. To Jyn’s dismay, Shara was all the way on the left wing, trying to mark Jade, the pretty Geordie who played midfield for the other side. But thankfully, Halliday’s shot was skewed, and the ball bounced off the top bar and tumbled into the nearby bush. Jyn could not help but roar her delight. 

The match was meant to be a friendly competition. Something to help forge a bond between old and new ATA recruits. But from the way Anna Lekis slammed into Halliday a few minutes later, it was clear that friendship was the last thing on everyone’s mind. 

“Foul!” screeched Jade. 

Anna shouted back. “We have no referee, stupid, so a foul can’t be called! And it was a fair tackle!”

“A fair tackle?” Halliday scrambled to her feet. “I didn’t even have the ball!” 

“Yes, you did!”

“No, I bloody didn’t!” 

Shara stepped toward the pair with her arms crossed. She gave an exhausted sigh. “ _Really?_ This is all completely ridiculous. Lekis, _back off._ And Halliday, get a grip. There’s no need for us to fight. Why don’t we just call it a tie?” 

Everyone ignored her. Even Rosemary, who by now had sprinted over to join the fray. It took them nearly ten minutes and two spectators to help resolve the issue. Halliday was awarded a free-kick, in which she sent sailing over the goal. “Do what I told you, Bey," Jyn barked at Shara as they resumed their positions, “and _STAY IN GOAL!”_ This time the American obeyed, although she could not help but give Jyn an eye-roll.

In their next wave of attack, Aster swerved away from Jade and sent a lovely, curling pass to Rosemary. The Scottish girl brought the ball down with a sublime touch, and… _whoosh!_ it sailed through the air as quick as an arrow before nestling into the top corner of the goal in one of the most beautiful sights Jyn had ever seen. The cheer she gave was embarrassingly loud. 

_Two-two,_ she thought, seething. _Take that, you bastards!_

Nearly everyone was covered in mud by the time the match came to an end. To the women’s (except Shara’s) dismay, the match ended in a tie, but most of them were too tired to complain overmuch. Jyn felt as if her bones and muscles were made of glass as she sank down onto the ground beside Rosemary. The redhead gave her a tiny smile and offered her a canteen of water. 

“I’m completely knackered,” said Jyn, after a few quick gulps. “If we had won, it would have been worth it. Those last ten minutes…I thought we had them.” 

Rosemary chuckled prettily. “Well, I should have scored a third. I had the chance. Too bad I missed. The angle was tricky, but I should have done better.”

Jyn studied her, frowning. “You’re very good, Rosemary.” 

The Scottish girl blushed. “Oh, I wouldn’t say so.”

“Yes, you are.” 

“I’m not, really. Halliday’s better.” 

“Halliday is stronger, but you have better technique.” Jyn poked her in the shoulder with an elbow. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding your skills from us, Rose! You sly thing!” 

“ _You’re_ very good too, Jyn.”

“Oh, I’m alright. I know _how_ the game is played better than I know how to play it. Not like you. You’re a natural. Why is that?” 

Rosemary’s smile turned sad, and Jyn suddenly realised the answer before she gave it. “I used to play with Jamie whenever he came home from school,” the girl said softly. There was something broken in her expression now, like there was every time she talked about the brother she had lost. “He was a Celtic fan, our Jamie. There was only the two of us so we did almost everything together. And growing up where we did, we had plenty of space to run.” She gave Jyn another tiny smile. “And what about you?”

“My father. He loved football. I used to watch the matches with him on the telly.” _When he was not working in his lab or buried in his books. When he had time to spend with me for more than five minutes a day._ The world had been sweeter then. And less complicated. 

“What are you ladies jabbering on about?” Shara sank down beside them, red-faced and tousled hair. She reached over to pluck the canteen of water from Jyn’s grip. 

“We were talking about how rubbish you were,” Jyn replied.

Shara laughed. “Honey, you have to let it go. I didn’t realise you’re such a tyrant when it comes to soccer.”

“Football.”

“ _Football._ ” The American rolled her eyes. “And speaking of feet, you right one is pretty sweet, Stuart.” 

Rosemary blushed again. “Oh, I don’t know about that - ”

“I beg your pardon, miss, but I’m looking for a…Miss Shara Bey?” A girl had come up to them. She was even smaller than Jyn, with chestnut curls that fell prettily to her shoulders. Jyn thought she had seen the girl around the place before. One of the maids’ daughters, perhaps.

Shara raised a hand. “I’m Shara Bey. Do you have a message for me?”

The girl’s cheeks reddened. “A message from Flight Captain Cochran, miss. She wants to see you in her office after dinner. And - and…” 

“And what?” 

The girl’s eyes dropped to her feet, clad in tiny shoes of brown leather. “There’s a man at the gate asking for you, miss.” 

Shara’s smile died. “What man? Did he give his name?”

“No, miss.” The girl shook her head, sending her curls to bouncing. “He just…told me to fetch you. To fetch Miss Shara Bey, he says. He says he’s an old friend.”

Jyn saw Shara’s face darken. For a moment, she thought Shara would tell the little girl to go away. Or give some lie for the girl to carry to the visitor. But then she pursed her lips together, and stood up. 

“Alright,” said Shara, rolling up her mud-stained sleeves. “I’ll go.” 

Rosemary stared at her, confused. But Jyn jumped to her feet. “I’m coming with you.” 

Her friend made no reply, but only nodded grimly as Jyn fell in beside her. The journey to the gate was made in silence. Yet as they walked, Jyn could not help but think, _It must be. It has to be._

And sure enough, it _was_ him. 

His hat was in his hand as he stood waiting. Beside him was a small old car, its dark blue colouring scratched and peeling off. Even though he smiled ever so sadly when he caught sight of them walking down the path, there was only fondness in his gaze. 

And Jyn saw Shara’s mouth twitch upward as though she meant to smile. 

 

* * *

 

Jyn was already asleep by the time Shara returned. She woke to find their tiny bedroom covered in darkness, and heard a _thump_ when her friend walked into their dresser. A whispered curse followed. 

“There’s a torch on your bedside table, you know,” Jyn spoke up, her voice still muffled from sleep. 

She heard Shara shuffle around, another curse, and then _flick!,_ her friend’s stern and tired face finally came into view. “I think I might have woken up Mrs. Figgs when I came in,” Shara told her. 

Mrs. Figgs was their landlady. ATA pilots were not given lodgings at their ferry pools, so Jyn and Shara had been living in this room just above the town’s little laundrette ever since they were assigned to Hamble. The place was within cycling-distance from the airfield, and the rent was not too expensive. So far the old woman’s strict nature and keen hearing were the only drawbacks. 

Jyn sat up in her bed. “You can always apologise tomorrow.” 

“As if I would.” Shara scrambled over her own bed to Jyn’s. “Scoot over.”

“Are we five years old?” Jyn asked. Nonetheless, she moved to make room for Shara. Her friend had not changed out of her ATA uniform, but at least had the decency to kick off her shoes before sliding into the bed beside her. 

“What did Cochran want?” Jyn asked. “You were gone for a very long time.” 

Shara shrugged. “I thought you’d still be awake,” she commented. 

Jyn had had trouble sleeping normal hours ever since she started flying at night. Whenever she had night flights, she could sleep through the entire day afterward; many of her friends had begun calling her an owl. But whenever she had to fly by day, the nights became a fitful sleepless torment. It was not uncommon for Shara to find her still reading a book by the light of a torch when the first morning rays came streaming through their window. _I’ve become half a ghost and half a corpse,_ Jyn often thought.

“I was tired,” Jyn answered. “Probably because of the football.” 

Shara scoffed. “Goodness, please! No more about the _football._ ” 

Jyn let out a chuckle. They lay in bed for a while, drinking in the silence. The white light from Shara’s torch bounced around the room, turning shadows into weird shapes. Eventually, Shara asked, “When will your next days off be?” 

“I have another three days left of work.” 

“So…” Shara’s frown deepened as she did the maths. “Next Wednesday, then?”

“Yes. Why?” 

“I’m off that day too. I’ve talked with some of the girls and we want to go up to London and catch _Mrs. Miniver._ Are you interested?”

“That Hollywood propaganda picture?” Jyn snorted derisively. “ _Please._ It’s made by Americans for Americans, so that you lot will send us your troops and tanks.”

“Well, _I’m_ an American,” said Shara. “It’s made for me then. Come on, Jyn. Please do come. It’ll be fun.” 

Jyn grew silent. There was something else hidden here, she realised; she and Shara knew each other too well. This invitation to _Mrs. Miniver_ was merely an introduction to the _real_ conversation, one Shara needed time to get to. But Jyn had never been a patient person, so she asked bluntly, “What did Kes want with you?”

Shara winced. “Jyn - ”

“You’re planning to tell me anyway. This _Mrs. Miniver_ thing is total bullocks. Let’s get the real thing over with so I can go back to sleep.”

“You’re breaking my heart, honey. You’re a cruel, unfeeling woman.”

“So are you. That’s why we’re friends. Now come on. Out with it.” 

It had been more than a year ever since her friend turned down Kes Dameron’s proposal of marriage. On that day, Shara had come back to Hamble white as a sheet. When Jyn questioned her, she did not cry or rage or even make a crude joke. In a strangely subdued tone she had declared, “Kes asked me to marry him. I said no.” And that was that. She retired to her bed and woke up the next day to ferry a Hurricane, all without shedding a single tear. 

Afterward, no matter how much Jyn tried to pry, all Shara ever said was that they were still “friends”, and that there were no hard feelings between them. But Jyn could not help but notice that the letters, the phone calls, and the trips to London began to stop. She even considered asking Cassian Andor about it during their night trips, but…well, she would rather not dwell on the reasons why she did not ask him at this very moment. 

“What did he want?” Jyn asked again, after Shara had remained silent for a few seconds. “He didn’t drive down from London just so he could admire your footballing prowess.” 

“We went for tea.” 

“And?” 

Shara gave a soft sigh. Then in a quiet voice, began to tell the story. When she was done, Jyn drew in a jagged breath. “Are you going to go after him?” she asked her friend.

“I don’t think he wants me to.” 

“Is that really the point?” 

“Of course it is.” Shara’s voice was suddenly hard. “We agreed to be friends. Friends don’t mess everything up by doing something stupid. Like he did.”

“Bey, he asked you to marry him.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Are we both so bloody stubborn that we can’t allow ourselves to be happy?”

“Maybe we’re too bloody happy to allow ourselves to be stubborn.”

“I doubt it.” 

“Well, at least _I_ am happy.” Shara gave a shrug. “If you were me, would you have said yes? No, you wouldn’t. You would have told him to go to hell. I know you.”

Jyn had a sudden image of a man with dark hair and dark eyes sinking to one knee before her and asking her the very same question Kes Dameron had asked her friend. She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about love or marriages, so I can’t possibly tell you anything useful.” Her parents had been in love once, and happy. For a short period of time. _And then they died._ She never thought love was much use after that.

Shara’s voice dropped even lower when she spoke again. “Jyn, I have something else to tell you.”

“What?” 

“It’s about Cochran.” When Jyn looked over, her friend had a cautious, almost scared look in her eyes. “She’s going back to America. They finally gave her the green light. She’s going to start training pilots for an all-female flying unit. Just like the ATA.”

Jyn remembered Jacqueline Cochran showing her the letters that she had been writing to Eleanor Roosevelt, begging for this very thing. “Well, that’s incredible. Good for her. About bloody time those folks in Washington got their heads out of their arses.” 

“Yes, but…” Shara’s eyes met Jyn’s. “She wants me to go with her.” 

For a long moment, the darkness seemed to have swallowed up the light from the torch. Jyn could only give a sharp laugh. “Are you taking the piss?” 

“No, Jyn, I’m not.” Shara sat up straighter in the bed and took her hand. “Cochran’s looking to recruit some of the ATA American pilots as part of her first class. She wants those with experience. The ones who have already ferried fighter planes and bombers. I fit the bill.” 

“But…but…” 

But all Jyn could think of was, _You mean to leave me._ The realisation staggered her. Knocked all the air out of her lungs. She thought she had already become accustomed to people leaving her, but this… _Somehow I have never planned for this._

“I know, honey.” Shara seemed to understand. She squeezed her hand. “But we can write letters. You can come over for a visit once the war is over.” 

“I always thought I was the impulsive one in this friendship.” 

The American gave a chuckle. “I have to give you a run for your money eventually, Erso.” 

“Is this because of Kes?” 

“No. It’s because of me. I want a chance to serve my country. Is that so very bad?”

“I never had you down for the patriotic type.”

“Well,” Shara said, smiling, “I _am_ going to see _Mrs. Miniver_ , after all.” 

Jyn could do nothing but laugh. After a while Shara began laughing too. And there they were, squeezed together in a bed that was too small, and laughing until Jyn thought she might even start weeping.  

But, of course, laughter can never last forever. Eventually the two women became silent again. And that was when Jyn covered their entwined hands with her free one. 

“I’m not going to miss you at all, Shara Bey.” 

Shara smiled. “I hate you too, Erso.” 

 

* * *

 

His mother was already pale as milk by the time the women had finished bathing her. Gone were the chocolate brown eyes that used to look on him with such love and kindness; they would never open again. Death had forced her mouth to droop down in a horrific half-circle, and her skin stretched over the bones of her face so thinly that he could see the blue and purple veins twisting like roots beneath her cheeks. When he reached out to touch her greying hair, he found it brittle and sharp. Like needles. 

_I should be crying,_ thought Bodhi Rook. _Why am I not crying?_

He heard the imam shuffle toward him. The old woman, a neighbour who helped bathe his mother and made her ready for the funeral, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. _It is time,_ they seemed to say. 

Bodhi covered his mother’s face with the _kafan_ once more. He gave a nod. 

Then it was time for prayer. 

Afterward, Bodhi would not be able to recall any of the words uttered by the imam and the mourners. Instead he reflected on what a bright and beautiful day it was, with hardly any clouds in the sky. Unusual for London. As he stood there beside the freshly dug grave, all he could think of was hot the sun felt on his skin. _I did my best, mum,_ he mused as he looked up at the sky, searching. _You like the sun, don’t you? You always say you do._

Her death had been coming, he knew. It had been coming for years. He hadn’t been surprised when he heard the news. Yet still it turned his entire world into a dream. _Am I awake?_ he found himself wondering often. _Is this real life? The real world? Or am I dead too, and this is all just some trick?_

Then the prayers were over. And he moved forward automatically to carry out the next part of the funeral. The faces of the men around him - neighbours, sons and grandsons of neighbours - were solemn as they moved forward with him. He had seen some of them around his neighbourhood over the years, but had never spoken to them. They were either very old men or teenage boys, with those closer to Bodhi’s own age having left London to join the war. Together they lowered his mother into the ground. Three handfuls of soil followed, poured and sprinkled over the plank that covered the body like raindrops. They made soft splattering noises as they hit the dark wood. 

_"We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time"._

Then it was time again for prayer. 

Later, after the grave had been filled, the old woman came up to Bodhi; she had lingered even when the other mourners had gone. An ancient, shrivelled thing, huddled and stooped, but the lined face under the _hijab_ was kind. “She was very proud of you, Bodhi,” the old woman told him. 

Bodhi had no reply. He could only stare down at the brown earth, wishing it would swallow him up too.

“She spoke of you all the time,” the old woman continued. “‘My son is a pilot’ _,_ she liked to say. Whenever we heard planes flying over our heads, she told me that it might be you up there.”

His throat was dry as chalk. “Auntie, if you would forgive me - ”

“ _Child_ \- ” 

“Please.”

The old woman gave a rattled sigh and nodded. “Yes, of course. But if you need anything. Anything at all…” 

Bodhi thanked her politely and she moved away. Perhaps out of the graveyard, and back home to her husband or her own son, Bodhi did not know. He had never thought to ask.  _You would know, mum,_ he thought. _I should have asked you while you were alive._

He did not know how long he stood there with his dead mother. It could have been hours, days, weeks. Finally he heard movement beside him. And when he looked up, he had to blink at the sight that greeted him, for Jyn Erso had never looked more like a dream. 

“Hello, Bodhi,” she said, smiling sadly. 

He blinked again. “Jyn. How - how are you here?”

“Buses. Train. The usual.” She shrugged. She was in her ATA uniform, creased and dusty like it always was. She frowned as she lifted up a bottle of wine. “I brought this. I forgot. I’m such an idiot.”

“It doesn’t - it doesn’t matter. How are you _here?_ I didn’t - ”

“You didn’t invite me, but I thought I’d come anyway. I’m annoying that way.” Her eyes softened when she looked at him. “Bodhi, I’m so sorry.” 

A lump began to form in his throat. He had to look away. “Thank you. Really, Jyn. You don’t have to be here.”

“Oh, I didn’t _really_ come up to London for you, you know. Some of the girls wanted to catch that new picture, _Mrs. Miniver,_ and they forced me to tag along.”

He smiled a little despite himself. “No one can force _you_ to do anything.”

“True.” Jyn smiled. “See? You know me too well.”

He beckoned her to follow him, and they found a bench underneath an oak tree where they made their seat. The day was getting hotter still, so he gave her permission to crack open her bottle of wine. He watched her drink it in silence. 

“Was the - was the picture any good?” he finally asked. 

Jyn looked confused as she lowered the bottle. “What picture?”

“ _Mrs. Miniver?”_

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “It was…alright, I suppose. Do you want to see it? I can go again with you.”

He shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t be any fun. Everything’s a bit of a blur right now. Like - like - ”

“Like you're in a dream. Yes, I remember,” Jyn said in a strange, hollow voice. “It will be like that for a couple of weeks. Maybe months. Years.”

_Of course. She would know. How stupid of me to have forgotten._ “How did - how did you get through it? When it happened to you?” 

Jyn shrugged carelessly. “I fired guns. But I suppose that’s not very much _your_ style.” 

“No, it’s not.” He smiled brokenly. “I was - I was too young to remember when my dad died, so this - this is all new to me.”

“How old were you then?” 

“Less than a year old, I think.” Strange. He hadn’t thought about his father in a long time. But when he locked eyes with Jyn, the words came spilling out. “My parents married in Pakistan, came over, and had me here. We were - we were living in Birmingham at first, and then my dad decided we should come down to London. That’s when he - he…there was an accident at work. My mother…she…it had been me and her ever since.”

Jyn nodded, and he was relieved she didn’t press him to say anymore. “What are you going to do now?” she asked instead. 

_What are you going to do now?_ The question felt strangely comforting when it should have distressed him. He thought hard for a moment, then found himself speaking softly, “All my life I tried staying close to home so I could take care of her. Everything - everything I did was so that we’d have enough money. When I was little, I used to believe that the money could help make her better. But as I grew older I began to realise that she’s _not_ going to get better, and all the money could ever do was make her dying a little less painful.” 

“Bodhi - ”

“No, it’s alright.” He rubbed his nose, and gave a cough to clear his throat. “Now that she’s gone, I can - I can…” But what he wanted to say was too horrible to voice out loud. Even to someone he trusted. 

Jyn seemed to understand, though. She slid her arm through his and said what he dared not. “I’ve been thinking about what you said to me. Back when Clydebank happened. When I was such a bitch to you.” 

“You weren’t a bitch.”

She winced. “I was. But do you remember what we talked about?”

“Night flying?”

“Yes.” She paused for a moment. “It could be good for you.” 

He was so grateful, he could have hugged her. “I want to. I really do. I want to do more than I’m currently doing. Now that - now that I can.”

“I’ll help you. I’ll speak to people, I’ll get you in.”

“Will they consider me?” 

Jyn frowned. “Why wouldn’t they?” 

Bodhi grimaced. He struggled to choose the right words. “Britain may be fighting this war, Jyn, but so is - so is the British Empire. But these men in high places…they…well, they like to forget that we exist, you know.” Family members from Pakistan whom he’d never met were out there right now, he knew, fighting and dying for a country they’d never get to see. He even had childhood friends who fought in France, some who were now in North Africa and Burma. Even plane factories in Birmingham had workers whose faces were similar to his own. “It’s - it’s what they do. These generals and prime ministers and kings. They forget. My mother always said it’s because they think it makes things easier.”

Jyn stared at him, disgusted. “Not if _I_ have anything to do with it! You’ll be a night-pilot, Bodhi, even if I have to give my right leg to make it happen!” 

He could never express how much her words meant to him, so he squeezed her arm instead. “Thank you, Jyn,” he mumbled. “You’re a - you’re a good mate.”

She waved away the compliment. “You’ll make an _excellent_ night-pilot, Bodhi. And one day you’ll fly me across the channel, all the way to France. Perhaps when the war is over. Have you ever seen the Eiffel Tower at midnight?” 

“I don’t believe I have.” 

“You will one day. I promise.”

A grin spread across his face. His first proper grin ever since he lost his mother. “I think I’ll like that,” he said. “I’ll like that very much.” 

 

* * *

 

There was a symphony of sounds that she knew as well as her own breathing: the engines, the rain, the wind. A year of flying him around the countryside should have lost its appeal by now, but somehow the stars disagreed. They appeared to be in on the secret too; they seemed to wink at her as she flew pass. 

Jyn leaned to the right, pointing down to the landscape below. “There’s our castle right there,” she said. 

She heard him move to the window. “I’ve always wondered how old it is.” 

“I’d have to check, but it might be as old as the conquest.” 

“There’s a boat in the moat tonight.” He sounded amused. 

“And a light in one of the tower windows.” She swooped a little to the right. “And someone has put up flags on the battlements.” 

Cassian chuckled. “You’re not supposed to point the castle out to me, Jyn. I’m not supposed to know where we’re going.” 

“I know. Careless talk costs lives,” she recited in a boring voice. “You say it so often, you should have the phrase tattooed on your forehead. But I say, what’s life without a little risk?” 

“Life without a little risk is still life.” 

She smiled. Of course he would say that. ‘ _You’re not supposed to point these things out to me’_ was also something he said often, but from the very first night she had never listened to him. He was the only passenger she talked to and the only one who talked to her; she was not about to let that end with a few cumbersome rules. And although their conversations were about mundane things - like the weather, the view below, the funny exploits of her friends at Hamble - she found herself missing them when she had to fly someone else. _I’ve grown used to him,_ she mused softly. 

It was a well-worn pattern they had. She made these trips with him once a month, maybe. Sometimes once every two months. It was always the same three military bases she flew him to - one in Scotland, another in Cornwall, the other in Yorkshire. Yet she still did not know what he did while she slept in the waiting room. All she could discern was that it was tiring work. He always returned to the plane weary and somehow more gaunt, and he would spend the entire return journey asleep, curled up like a cat and dead to the world. She no longer felt offended by it. She had come to realise how rare it was for him to find a semblance of peace. 

The runway came into sight. Below them the moors stretched out like a great black carpet. She heard him tap his fingers against his seat as she started making their descent. “What’s wrong?” he suddenly asked. He had a knack of reading her moods, which infuriated her to no end. 

She made herself scoff disdainfully. “Who said there was anything wrong?” 

“ _Is_ there anything wrong?”

She paused for a moment. For half a heartbeat she wanted to tell him about Shara leaving, and about Bodhi’s mother. But all she said was, “There’s a storm coming. Don’t spend too long tonight. We don’t want to get caught up in it on the way back.”

He did not push her. He never did. But after they had landed and climbed out of the plane, he turned back to her one last time. “Will you be alright?” he asked. 

“Well…I always am,” she answered. 

A strange look passed across his face. Then he nodded. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.” 

This military base was the smallest one out of the three. The building where Cassian conducted his mysterious task was nothing but a large farmhouse - brick-red, three-story, and hidden amongst a clump of trees. Beyond that sat three huts. Only one had light coming from its windows. Jyn headed toward it, pulling her jacket tighter around her body. The wind was picking up. 

Inside the hut she found a kettle on a stove, two candles burning, and a wooden bench covered with a patchy blanket. A familiar sight. She finished the sandwich she had in her pocket, and washed it down with cold water before lying down on the bench for the night. The blanket did not help much against the cold, but it was better than nothing. 

_I should have told Cassian about Shara_ , she thought wistfully. If Shara had been right about Kes Dameron, he would understand. _I’ll tell him later. Maybe later._

She dreamt the same dream again. The one that haunted her always. She was running, running, running. Behind her the gunshot rang out. Her mother screamed. The wind whipped around her, tugging at her clothes, pulling, scratching, and the ground began to fall from beneath her feet like it had not been there at all….

Then the door of the hut burst open with a _bang_ that shattered the world. 

The man was on her in a heartbeat. He stank of blood, vomit, urine. Bloody nails came clawing at her throat. A blade was pushed against her cheek, cold and biting. Out of the corner of her eye, flames were licking down the side of the table; the candles had been knocked down, she realised with panic. The floor titled beneath her as if to throw her off the face of the earth. _No, no,_ she thought. _This is not how I die!_

The man began shouting, pleading, threatening. _German. He’s German._ His grip on her neck was fire and iron. 

Jyn spit out a mouthful of blood, then wrapped her legs around the man’s waist as though they were lovers. She spun them, and with a harrowing shout, the knife slipped from the man’s grasp and hit the floor with a _clang_. “Stop moving, if you know what's good for you!” she roared. 

It was easy after that. The man was desperate but untrained. She grabbed his hand, twisted it until he screamed. A knee to the groin, then a punch in the face, and he was on his back sobbing as she pushed his own knife under his chin. 

“ _Who are you?_ ” she demanded.

“ _No, no, no_ ….” he wailed, half in broken English and half in German. “ _Please…no…_ ” 

Men were shouting outside. And before she could decide what to do, they had burst in. Two soldiers hoisted the sobbing German to his feet and dragged him away from her. “Are you alright, ma’am?” one of them asked, but she could not answer. All the strength had gone out of her legs and she found herself in a heap on the ground, the knife still in her hand.

“Get him back to his cell! NOW!” a voice rang out. Then the speaker came closer, crouched down in front of her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Jyn, are you alright?” asked Cassian Andor.

“I was slow,” murmured Jyn. His face swam hazily before her. “I was too…too slow. It’s been a while, I’ve forgotten. I should have - should have never let him put his knife on me. I could have dealt with him faster…Saw would have…”

“Shh. It’s alright.” He pried the knife away from her hand. “You’re bleeding.” He touched her cheek, then her neck, and his fingers came away red. 

“It’s just a cut.”

Cassian looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Get something for her wound!” 

“No, no, I’m alright, I’m just out of practice.” She flailed about, trying to get to her feet. But he kept his hand on her arm and helped raise her up. “I’ve had worse, believe me.” 

“Here.” Someone had given him a wet cloth and he touched it to her skin. He was tender as he wiped away the blood. 

Other than a soldier who’s putting out the flames, they were alone; the German had been taken away like Cassian had ordered. Jyn swallowed. “That man…”

“A prisoner. We made a mistake. He got hold of a knife. Escaped.” Cassian’s mouth grew tight. “It was my fault. I misread something.” 

“Misread…?” She did not understand. She laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady herself. And for the first time she saw the fresh cut on his forehead, the bruise below his right eye. “ _You’re hurt.”_

“He caught me unawares. It won’t happen again.” 

“What was he _doing_ here?”

“I told you. He was a prisoner.” 

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are _you_ doing with him?”

Cassian froze, the cloth still at her brow. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was enough. She shoved him away. “I need some air.”

“Jyn - ”

“ _Don’t follow me._ ” 

The wind whipped at her face when she stepped outside like it had done in her dream. _Breathe. Breathe._ There was now light in the other two huts, she saw, and a soldier had just walked into the farmhouse. But she turned on her heels and marched away from the buildings, straight into the moors. The lights from the moon and the buildings were nothing but pale ribbons guiding her way, and she nearly tripped over a rock as she stumbled headlong into the grass. She only stopped when she came to the point where the light met the total blackness.

_Breathe. Breathe. Jyn, breathe._ Yet tears spilled from her eyes, unbidden. She never thought that the moors could make her cry before. 

Cassian found her there much later when it had begun to rain. There was anger in his voice when he said quietly, “Jyn, you can’t just walk off like that. It’s not safe.” 

“This is not of one those times when you can just trod out one of your bloody slogans and expect everything to be alright, Cassian!”

“You’re angry with me.”

“No, I’m not.” She wasn’t. Not really. 

“Then can we go? There’s a storm coming. You said so yourself.”

“Not until I get the truth.”

He gave a heavy sigh. Then she heard the flick of a lighter, and he came to stand beside her to offer her a lit cigarette. “I knew you would say that,” he muttered, all the anger gone from his voice. 

Her fingers brushed against his as she took the cigarette from him. When she inhaled, the world felt pure again. Almost rich. She asked, “The German is a prisoner. I’m guessing he’s a captured spy. And you’re - what - his interrogator?”

“Yes.”

“His interrogator. And maybe his torturer as well?”

“Jyn - ”

“You’re a brilliant liar, Cassian, but you can’t lie your way out of this one.” She smiled sadly as she flicked away the ash at the end of her cigarette. “Your prisoner had bruises too. I noticed.”

“I do whatever is necessary to win the war and save lives.” There was a hardness in his voice that she had never heard before. “Do you think we can win by playing nice, Jyn? Do you think we can win by playing by the rules? We don’t have that luxury. I’m not saying that what we’re doing is right, but if it were easy, everyone would do it.”

She stared hard at him. “Is that what you tell yourself to help you sleep at night?”

His lips curled into a bitter smile. “Oh, I’ve given up on sleeping a long time ago.”

 _You sleep in my plane,_ she was desperate to say, but instead she put the cigarette to her lips once more. After a quiet moment, she said, “So you do whatever it takes. No matter the cost.”

“I play games.” 

She scoffed. “ _Games._ You lie to him. Manipulate him. Sometimes use a little bit of violence to get your point across.” Sadness rose up inside her, and she felt tears stinging her eyes again. She rubbed them away with ashy fingers. “My father was a prisoner of the Nazis, did you know that? I was eight when they took him. He’s dead now. But before he died, do you think they were playing these _games_ with him as well?” 

Cassian sucked in a painful breath. “I did not know about your father.” 

“Well, now you do.” 

“I’m sorry about him, Jyn, I really am. But everyone plays games. This whole war is a game. We can only win if we play it better than them.”

“Better?” She gave an awful laugh. “And here I was thinking we’re trying to play it differently. Or we’re not trying to play at all.” 

He frowned. “What are you saying?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m saying you can do more. We can do more. _Be_ more.”

For a moment, Cassian seemed stunned. Then his eyes softened in a way that made her heart bleed. “It’s not that easy, Jyn,” he said.

“Yes, you’re right, it’s not that easy.” She paused for a moment to inhale again. When she exhaled, the smoke trailed from her lips to his in a stream of silver. “But like you said. If it were easy, everyone would do it.” 

He smiled. Sad and regretful. And somehow that was the smile she would remember forever. 

 

* * *

 

In life, Kes Dameron had always relied on two things: his wits and his luck. As he rang the bell of the flat in Russell Square, he had a strange feeling that he might be running out of both pretty soon. 

When Kay opened the door and saw him, the blond man barely smiled. “About time, Dameron. Late as ever.”

“I had to pack.” He pointed down to his large suitcase. 

“Not an excuse,” said Kay, but he opened the door a little wider for Kes to come inside. He glanced down at Kes’ leg. “I see you’re getting fitter, Dameron,” he remarked dryly.

Kes shrugged. “I manage.” _Like I manage everything else. That’s all I ever do: just manage._

They found Cassian in the dining room, bent over a giant world map. A cup of tea weighed down one corner of the paper, a jug of water another. He greeted Dameron with a stern nod. _So gaunt,_ Dameron thought, surprised. _He looks like he’s aged ten years._

Kes forced a chuckle as he tossed his coat onto a chair; his suitcase he had left in the foyer. “Studying a map, Andor? How bloody pretentious can you be, _Captain?”_

“Very,” Kay broke in. “It’s all he does now. Looking at maps.”

“I’m preparing,” said Cassian seriously, but his eyes shone with amusement.

Kes grinned “Preparing for what?”

“Everything,” said Kay. “The whole bloody war.” 

“I’m analysing,” said Cassian.

Kes gave a laugh. “Analysing? The only thing that needs _analysing_ is your sense of humour. And that sodding beard.”

Something close to a smile touched Cassian’s lips. “I’m going to miss you, Dameron.”

“Hopefully not too much, I hope? The girls will be jealous.” He winked. “And you can come visit me anytime you want, mate, if you’re mad enough to brave the U-boats.” 

“So you’ve finished the training, then? The interviews?”

“Yes.” Kes took a sip of Cassian’s tea without his permission. “Well, I was supposed to have one more, but they’re in a hurry. Ever since we lost Tobruk and the Germans have marched on El Alamein, they’re shipping everyone off as fast as they can.” 

“So when are you leaving, then?”

“Tomorrow morning.” 

For a split second, Cassian looked sad. “Alexandria?”

“Cairo.”

Cassian’s mouth tightened. “I thought we’d have more time.”

Kes gave a shrug. “At least I have time enough to say goodbye to you lot, haven’t I?”

“You won’t be seeing any fighting when you’re there, I hope?” 

“With this old thing?” Kes scoffed, tapping his bad leg. “No, of course not, don’t you worry. Churchill is planning to replace Auchinleck, and whoever takes up his place, I’m supposed to do whatever he says. Keep my eyes open, test the temperature in the streets, do paperwork.” He shrugged. “A bloody vacation compared to France.”

Kay walked over and pushed a glass into his hand, another into Cassian’s. “This will be our last drink together then, Dameron.” 

Kes took a small sip. “Scotch?” 

“Yes. A family heirloom,” replied Kay. “Consider it a parting gift. My way of saying don’t die out there.”

“Blimey!” Kes grinned. “I believe this might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“And hopefully it will be the last, God help me.” 

Much later, after Kay had gone to bed, Kes found himself sitting on the floor of the kitchen with Cassian while they passed another one of Kay’s family heirlooms between them. Smoke swirled from their cigarettes, and the map of the world lay on the marble tiles before them. A large ash tray covered the entirety of Fiji. After a moment of silence, Kes saw his friend’s gaze drop from the bottle down to the continent of Africa.

“It will be one hell of a battle,” said Cassian in a quiet voice. 

Kes gave a deep sigh. “I know,” he admitted. He grabbed the bottle from Cassian, and savoured the bitterness on his tongue for a short moment. 

They all had tried to be confident about it earlier. Tried to face it all with a stiff upper lip, but… “If the Germans manage to keep hold of El Alamein,” Cassian continued, eyes still on the map, “they can move on Alexandria, then Cairo, then the Suez Canal. If they succeed, it will be grim. Whoever Churchill hopes to replace Auchinleck with…” 

“We better hope he’s a bloody good commander.”

Cassian nodded and turned to him. “Dameron - ”

“It’s a bit late to ask me to change my mind, Andor.” Kes gave a humourless smile. “It was you who arranged this whole thing in the first place. And if you expected I would just sit around with my leg - ”

“I’m not asking you to change your mind. I simply want to make sure that you’re going for the right reasons.”

Kes stared at his friend. “Have you gone mental, Andor? You should be the last person giving advice on healthy life choices.”

“I just thought that because of…” 

“Shara?” _It always comes back to Shara,_ he thought. _Ever since…_ He pushed the memory aside. “You’re allowed to say her name, you know.”

“Are you going to Egypt because she turned you down?” 

_Am I?_ He could still remember the look in her eyes after he had gone down on one knee. After he had asked the question. Even after more than a year later, the scene was still painful to recollect. He heard himself say, “I went to see her, you know. Told her where I’m going. She wished me well. But I’m going to Cairo because they’re sending me there. Not because of her. You were right. We’re better off as mates. You told me it was a terrible idea, and I should have listened to you.” 

Cassian was quiet for a few seconds. “I’m not always right, you know,” he eventually said.

There was something in Cassian’s tone that gave Kes pause. He studied his friend carefully through the smoke. “What’s going on with you, Andor?” he asked. 

Cassian shrugged. His eyes had glazed over from the alcohol. “Nothing,” he answered. “I’m only rethinking some things. That’s all.”

And Kes knew his friend better than to ask any more. 

He left the flat before the sun rose, while Cassian and Kay were still asleep. Outside a fog had settled over the city, and there was a chill in the air, with soft breezes that tickled and teased him like a woman he once knew and loved. An ARP warden stood leaning against a doorway, his helmet pulled low over his eyes. There was a union jack sticking out of a building’s upstairs window, flapping lazily in time with the wind. He could see a taxi rolling pass, a shopkeeper pulling open her shutters, a stray dog gnawing on a bone in front of a newsagent. As he made his way to the tube station, he heard the quiet, familiar voices of London began to rise in one collective whisper. And before long the greyness of the night started to give way to morning.

Suddenly, Kes found himself wondering how hot it would be in Cairo. Whether he would come to love the sun just as much as he now loved the cold. Whether he would miss the rain, the buses, the tube. Even the unfriendly but defiant eyes of the people he walked pass everyday on the streets of London…

_I’m off on a grand adventure,_ Kes Dameron told himself firmly _. There’s nothing to fear. Nothing to be sad about. I’m smart, young, and lucky._ Life would be better. It must be. And then the dawn would come.

  

 

 

The most famous love stories are the ones that have launched a thousand ships, brought down a kingdom, slain a dragon. That have made kings and queens and unmade them. That have left a mark on the fabric of history. But the most tragic ones of all are the ones that have ended before they have barely begun. 

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for my attempt at writing humour by squeezing in that nerdy five-a-side scene! But hey, I’m a shameless football fan, so I just couldn’t resist! 
> 
> All chapter titles are quotes from William Shakespeare. Now onto the history:
> 
> \- The film _Mrs. Miniver_ was released in June 1942, and went on to win the Best Picture Oscar in the following year. Directed by William Wyler, the film was inspired by his own war time experience, and explores the life of an English family who’s learning how to cope with war. The film was made by Hollywood as a propaganda picture, to persuade America to put their full weight behind the war effort. Although Wyler later called the film “naive”, he was proud of the impact it made. Even Nazi Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels said that the film showed “refined powerful propagandistic tendency [that] has up to now only been dreamed of”. For those interested in Wyler and war-time Hollywood, I heartily recommend the documentary **Five Came Back** on Netflix. 
> 
> \- The ATA was a civilian organisation, which meant it did not provide housing for its employees. Billeting Officers helped foreign pilots find housing, but most British pilots found their housing with friends, renting rooms in clubs, cottages, and towns near their ferry pool. They would work 12 days at an end, usually flying from dawn till dusk, and then had two days off. Many of the girls would travel to London every chance they got to meet and party with friends. 
> 
> \- Jackie Cochran ferried planes in the ATA for 11 months, rising to the rank of Flight Captain. All the while she wrote letters to Washington, asking permission to form an all-female pilot ferrying unit in America. Finally, in June 1942, she was asked to return home to form the WAFS/WASP. I changed the month from June to July in this chapter just so it’d fit our plot, but Jackie did recruit a few American ATA pilots like Shara to join her back in America. 
> 
> \- During the colonial era, many South Asians came to Britain as seamen, and most early Pakistani settlers moved from port towns to the Midlands during the war. There were more than 800,000 Muslim Indian soldiers in 1945; most of them were from what is now Pakistan. These soldiers fought in the Battle of France, the North African Campaign and the Burma Campaign. British Pakistanis also contributed to the war effort by working in aircraft factories, including one in Birmingham which produced Spitfires. Bodhi’s family background is a tribute to their contribution, which is so often overlooked. The character of his mother and her illness and death were inspired by what Riz Ahmed said about Bodhi. The funeral rituals were also written from research. If you're a Muslim and spotted any mistakes, please do let me know so I can make corrections. 
> 
> \- Tobruk was recaptured by the Axis in June, 1942. By July, the First Battle of El Alamein was underway. The Axis, led by Rommel, were positioned near El Alamein, only 106km from Alexandria, making them dangerously close to the Suez Canal and the base facilities of the Commonwealth forces. The ‘Auchinleck’ mentioned by Cassian and Kes is General Claude Auchinleck, commander of the Allied forces in Egypt, who were trying to prevent the Axis from advancing. The First Battle of El Alamein would end in a stalemate, and "the bloody good Commander" Cassian and Kes hope will replace Auchinleck would later be the famous General Bernard Montgomery. An officer of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) in Dunkirk, Montgomery took command in Africa in August, 1942. Tobruk would later be recaptured by the Allies in November 1942, during the Second Battle of El Alamein. Montgomery’s victory would be the beginning of the end of the Axis threat in North Africa. 
> 
> \- Cairo during WWII was an interesting place, filled with Allied soldiers and officers, locals, and German spies. The British had two headquarters in Cairo: the British Troops in Egypt (BTE) in the Semiramis Hotel on the Nile and General Headquarters Middle East in Garden City. By the time Montgomery won his decisive battle at El Alamein, it had become a serious military city, albeit one still dominated by parties, secrets, refugees, and political tensions. The idea of sending Kes there was too romantic for me to turn down! 
> 
> —
> 
> Again. Sorry for the angst! PLEASE do let me know what you make of the chapter. Or if you just want to have a conversation about anything - books, films, history - feel free to leave a comment! [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> .
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “Make Death Proud To Take Us” - in which Cassian does something drastic and Kay is far from happy_
> 
>  
> 
> *This next chapter might take me longer than usual to write because there's other writing I need to prioritise and a TON of research I need to do, so please do bear with me!


	7. Make Death Proud To Take Us: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassian does something drastic and Kay is far from happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people of the internet! Yes, I am still alive. And, yes, I still haven’t given up on this story. (Yet.) I’m so sorry for the long hiatus. I’ve just been busy with work, life, other writing ([including this one](https://keeponthegrass.net/2017/10/12/why-the-fourth-season-of-friday-night-lights-is-the-shows-best/)), rewatching _Friday Night Lights_ , rereading _A Song of Ice and Fire_ and rereading _Atonement_. All very important stuff! (Not.) 
> 
> This chapter was meant to be one single chapter, but it grew too long so I had to split it in half. Hopefully it doesn’t _completely_ suck and that you guys are still interested in reading this long depressing story! 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than the existence of Tim Riggins. So please leave one if you can!

**_Previously:_ ** _Shara has returned to America to join Jacqueline Cochran’s new all-female ferrying unit (the WASP). Kes is now stationed in Cairo, Egypt; the African campaign is now under the command of General Montgomery. Jyn discovers that Cassian has been ‘interrogating’ German prisoners for Draven. She expresses her disproval and tells him that he can do better, causing him to question everything he’s been doing thus far. You know, all the usual light-hearted stuff._

* * *

 

_You see a man drowning, you must try to save him even if you cannot swim._

**Irene Sendler,** member of the Polish Underground

 

* * *

**England, 1943**

 

_Hello stranger,_

_You are the worst friend I’ve ever had, Erso. I’ve written you FIVE letters and you haven’t replied to any of them! I know you have that tragic thing going for you, with your tortured past and all, and can’t be deigned to keep in touch, but this is getting ridiculous, honey. Rosemary had sent me four letters, Aster three. Even_ _Anna_ _had sent me one! And she hates me! You, my mysterious angry little friend, are falling miserably behind. Keep up._

_Anyway, things are going quite well here, in case you’re wondering. Although it is rather like living in a convent. The “Cochran Covent”, we call it. I can’t lie. I do miss those parties we had in London, and I do miss the pay in the ATA. The pay here is dismal. Absolutely dismal. And the Men Folk do have odd notions when it comes to keeping us ‘in line’. Guess what? All our flying instructors here are married men! MARRIED. Can you believe it? How dull! Somehow they think that only married men would know how to handle women. They believe that if they were to give us single men, we would jump their bones and crash our planes! The audacity!_

_Please do not think I’m complaining too much. Despite all these strange ‘rules’ and the rubbish pay, I really am enjoying myself immensely. It’s been splendid. We’ll also be graduating very soon. Perhaps even before this letter reaches you! And have you heard? We even have our own mascot! This little gremlin drawn by Mister Walt Disney himself! We’re wearing her on our shoulder patches and I’ve put one in the envelope for you so you’d be jealous._

_The training is gruesome, of course, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s been a slog, for certain, with the fog, the wetness, the lack of decent toilets at base etc., but it’s the best kind of slog, you know? We’re seeing it as a big ‘screw you’ to the suits; the more crap we are put through, the stronger we’ll become. Hazel says it is better that we are doing_ _something_ _rather than doing nothing at all, and I can’t agree more. Hazel is one of the girls here. She’s brilliant! You’d love her! The other girls are very nice too, and although I do miss our little gang, it is a comfort to know that I have people here I can talk to. I know you’re not very good at talking to people, Jyn. Not even to me. And it makes me sad that in my coming home, I might have robbed you of my brilliant company!_

_Joking aside, I just want you to know that whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re going through, you don’t need to be so tight-lipped and terribly British about it all. I might be an ocean away, but I am always here for you whenever you need me. You only have to write or call. And please - do talk to poor Rosemary. She is trying awfully hard to replace me in your affections (or lack thereof), and I beg you to give her a chance. Please don’t be alone, Erso._

_I had wanted this letter to be excruciatingly long, but I’m afraid something’s come up and I must dash. Please send my love to everyone. And don’t forget - WRITE ME BACK!_

 

_Your long suffering friend,_

_Shara_

 

_PS. I’ve heard about Montgomery’s victory at El Alamein. Everyone has. But have you heard anything about Cairo_ _specifically? _ _Cairo didn’t see any fighting, did it? Is Cairo doing well? And don’t you dare snigger, Jyn Erso. I am allowed to be curious. One might not want to be married to Cairo, but one still has the right to enquire after its wellbeing._

_PPS. Caught Bogie and Bergman in Casablanca on my day off. We have_ _so _ _much to discuss! WRITE. ME. BACK!_

 

* * *

 

The _Prosper_ networkwas floundering. 

It took Cassian Andor nearly a year to arrive at this conclusion. Ever since the moment he made The Choice. (The Choice was made the morning Kes Dameron left for Cairo. He was in the kitchen smoking at eight in the morning while Kay was putting the kettle on. He kept replaying her words - _“You can do more”_ \- over and over again to himself, and by the time the water had finished boiling, his mind was finally made up.) Since The Choice was made, he had approached every process with infinite care; he had always believed that meticulous planning is key to success. It was not enough just to spend a few quid or spare a few minutes; he had to play the part seamlessly. 

First it was cornering the right people in the corridors of their Baker Street headquarters whenever he was in London; identifying the important agents in a sea of ordinary foot-soldiers. Once the targets have been acquired, it was time for the pattern: cigarettes, drinks, words. He had to cajole, needle, flatter, listen, wait, manipulate, gossip. Cigarettes, drinks, words. Extracting information is rather like a spider weaving its web; you need to know which springs to pull and when. And he was a master at it. 

Compartmentalisation was key. The work he did for Draven - the work Jyn still flew him to - he kept locked in another part of his brain. It must always be focus and tolerance for his actual job; cigarettes, drinks, words for the work he’s doing on the side. These two tasks must always be kept separate and could never intersect for it would sour everything. Like when you order a salad and have to ask for dressing on the side. He told Kay nothing of it, of course. His friend wouldn’t understand. Nor did he mention it to Jyn. Mentioning it to her would be distracting and unhelpful, and came with…other feelings he would rather not explore.

Despite his hard work, however, his efforts only yielded _real_ results once he met a certain Sergeant Ruescott Melshi, newly returned from France. 

The half-French, half-Scottish spy could drink him under the table. And after countless glasses of whiskey in a pub in Islington, Melshi, still miraculously conscious, leaned in and asked him pointblank what he wanted from this encounter. 

“We’re not playing games here, Captain,” said Melshi. “I’m fucking tired of games. What do you want to know?” 

Cassian hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then -

“What would _you_ want to tell _me_ , Sergeant?” 

So it was that a day later, Cassian Andor found himself requesting an urgent meeting with his commanding officer, General Davits Draven. 

The older man listened to everything Cassian had to say with a blank expression that bordered on apathy. When he finished talking, the general’s moustache twitched as if he were a tiger being prodded from sleep. 

“I ought to have you court-martialled,” Draven said. When Cassian offered no reply, he frowned. “I ought to punch you in the face, come to think of it.”

“I meant no offence, sir. I only wanted to help.” 

“You are _already_ helping,” Draven growled through gritted teeth. “I recruited you because I thought you had the stomach for the job. And now you’re saying you want to quit?” 

“Not quit, sir,” replied Cassian. He locked his hands together. “I want a change. The work you’ve given me…it’s…”

“You knew it would not be pretty when you took the job.” 

“Yes, sir. I only…” 

“You’re telling me you want to do something else?”

“I want to do something better, sir.” 

“What rubbish!” Draven’s expression twisted from shock to absolute fury. “We don’t need your bloody prying, Andor! This bloody business with you wining and dining our F-Section spies for secret information…I ought to report you and have the whole lot of you thrown in jail! The fucking impertinence! _I_ give the orders, Andor. That’s how it works. You don’t _suggest_ your own orders! We’re not _Americans,_ for fuck’s sake!” 

“You need me for _Prosper_ , sir. You don’t have anyone else who’s as good as me.” 

“How do you even know the name of the network?” 

Cassian hesitated. “The ginger chap in - ”

Draven waved a rough hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know!” There was an eerie silence in the office when Draven fixed Cassian with an intimidating stare. “So you’ve told me what you’ve found out from our loosed-lips operatives who couldn’t hold their liquor. Now what? How are you going to proceed? You’ve come to me with this, so you must have a plan of some sort.”

“Melshi told me of Henri Dericourt, sir. Melshi’s had his suspicions ever since he was in France. He doesn’t trust him. He says the reason our new agent couldn’t get in touch with our other operatives on the ground is because Dericourt’s been leaking information to the Gestapo.” 

“Dericourt’s been in France since January and has done excellent work. We have no proof that he’s been turned. None at all. And we’re still receiving messages from Gilbert Norman.”

“Marks thinks Norman’s been compromised, sir.” 

“Marks is only one person.” 

“Marks is head of codes and ciphers, sir. If an agent is compromised, Marks would know. And, yes, we’ve heard from Norman, but what about Suttill? Borrel? Why can’t our new agent get in touch with _them_? Something doesn’t add up, sir. Someone’s lying.”

Draven scoffed. “And what are you intending to do about it, Andor?”

“Catch the liar, sir.” Cassian made himself sit up straighter in his chair. “Melshi and I. If it’s Dericourt, we want to get you proof.”

“Why have you come to me and not to Bodington or Buckmaster?” 

“Melshi says they’re not interested, sir. They believe Dericourt.” 

“So you’re using me to your own ends, is that what you’re saying?” 

_Yes,_ thought Cassian. _In a way._ But all he said was, “Sir, I’m good at my job. You want a traitor caught, I’m your man. You know that’s true. Send me to France. Let me get to the bottom of this before the entire network falls apart. And if it already has, at least we'll know for sure.” 

“You can barely speak French!” 

“I understand it well enough, sir. And I’m sure the lads can help me come up with a believable cover. Besides, I’ll mainly be communicating with our own operatives. And Melshi can help.” 

“So you and Melshi are mates now?” Draven gave a bark of laughter. “I find that hard to believe. You’re not one for making friends, Andor.”

“You give a Scotsman and a Mexican alcohol and the prospect of Nazis to fight, you’d be surprised at how well we can get along, sir.”

“This is bloody madness!” 

“Sir, I’m the best chance you’ve got. I can be of more use to the SOE by doing this. Not to harp on it about it, sir, but I _did_ manage to extract secret information from most of your top operatives.” 

“What about the work you’re doing now?” Draven asked, his brows so furrowed together, it had become one single line. 

Cassian found himself hesitating. If he were to tell the truth - the _whole_ truth, about what Jyn had told him and about the nightmares he’d been having at night - it would never ever do. Draven would never understand; he would call it cowardice. But if he were to tell him _parts_ of the truth… 

“The work’s been…difficult lately, sir,” said Cassian. “That’s the truth of it.” He gave a heavy sigh. A practiced sigh, heavy with burden and guilt. “With what happened with my family in Mexico…all I’m saying is…what you’re asking me to do…it’s been…too much, sir. It’s been too much, too soon. I can barely sleep. I need a break from it, no question about it, sir. If I keep doing it…I’m afraid I’ll make mistakes that’ll make everything worse.”

For a long moment Draven simply refused to say anything at all, his gaze turning once more to stone. _Can he see through me?_ Cassian wondered. _Does he know that there’s more to this performance than what I’m letting him see?_ He knew he was walking on thin ice. One slip and all his hopes would be gone. 

Then Draven said, “I recruited you because I thought you were a soldier, Andor. Soldiers follow orders without question. That’s what I thought I was getting. A soldier.” 

A flash of anger shot through Cassian. When he spoke his voice was sharp with reproach. “I was a revolutionist, sir. A Zapatista. Like my father before me.” 

Draven sniggered. “You were a six-year-old boy who threw rocks at tanks. Let’s dispense with the noble bullocks, Andor, it’s beneath you.” 

Cassian could hardly look at Draven, his face had gone so numb. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would feel like to knock his superior to the ground. Pummel him a couple of times with his fist. Draven, however, regarded his quiet anger as if it were nothing but a fly buzzing around his head. 

“What if I said no?” Draven continued after a moment’s pause. “Would you mope around like a spoiled debutante, Andor? Or would you flee back to South America with your tails tugged between your legs?” 

Cassian took a long breath, struggling to bring his frustrations under control. “If you were to reject my plan, sir, I would continue working for you to the best of my abilities. Only that - ”

“Only that you’d rather not be.” Draven’s mouth twisted. “I can live with that.” 

“I’m sure you can, sir. But _Prosper_ might not live at all.” 

Draven looked like he wanted nothing more than to shoot Cassian right then and there. But he simply studied him for a while, tugging his whiskers in a contemplative manner. 

“If I agreed to this, you would have to choose a capable replacement to do your job here.”

“Of course, sir. I can provide you with a list of candidates. All good men.” 

“And I’d require you to give up the names of those operatives who blabbered to you.”

There was no other way around this issue, he knew. So he gave a nod. “Yes, sir.” 

“You’re a nuisance, Andor,” Draven grunted. “A bloody nuisance. You’re not supposed to be a bloody nuisance. What the hell happened?” 

“I don’t know, sir,” Cassian lied smoothly. “I’m quite surprised myself.”

“I detest surprises.”

“So do I, sir. But here we are.” He paused for a few seconds. Took his time. “So what will it be, sir? England? Or France?”

Draven did not reply right away, but there was a brief harsh gleam in his eyes that told Cassian what he needed to know.

_I have him,_ the spy thought. _I have the bastard._

 

* * *

 

Jyn Erso was enjoying a rare moment of solitude when she was rudely interrupted. 

She was in her favourite fluffy dressing gown, with a warm cup of tea in hand, and was half-way through an old copy of _Emma_ when the sound - a pebble hitting her bedroom window - reached her ears. Naturally she ignored it, hoping to God she had misheard. But then a few seconds later… _click, click, click,_ as more pebbles hit the glass surface. Groaning and cursing, she rolled out of bed, left _Emma_ on the pillow and pushed the window open to find…

“ _Cassian?_ ” 

It really was Cassian Andor. Cassian Andor in his officer uniform, looking rather sheepish standing in the little space between Mrs. Figgs’ overgrown hedge and the wall of her red-bricked house. He gave her an awkward wave, which she was too shocked to return.

She hissed down, “What on _earth_ are you doing here?” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Can’t it wait until our next flight?” 

“No, it can’t.” He shifted on the balls of his feet, not quite meeting her eyes. “Please, Jyn, can you come down?” 

She wanted to say ‘yes,’ but a mad sense of pride and annoyance seized her in that moment. “No,” she said. 

“No?”

“ _No._ ” She crossed her arms. “You interrupted my book. And I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”

“This won’t take long.”

“You can’t just show up here unannounced.” Jyn glowered down. “How do you even know where I live?”

“I called in a few favours.”

Jyn gave a derisive snort. “Of course you did.” 

Cassian sighed. “Please, Jyn. This is serious. And why are you whispering?” 

“My landlady’s downstairs in the living room listening to the wireless. She’ll throw a fit if she sees you here.”

He met her eyes imploringly. “Jyn, I really need to talk you. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” His voice dropped to lower than a whisper, but she could still read the word on his lips. “ _Please.”_

_Damn the man!_

She pulled her dressing gown in tighter. “Alright.” She sighed. “Go round back. And _quietly._ I’ll sneak you up.” 

She did not linger to see him leave, but padded over to her dressing table. Ever since Shara left for America, Mrs. Figgs had put her up in a much smaller bedroom. The space was now so tiny that she bumped into her bed on her way to the mirror. Once there, she had to use one hand to rub the pain from her right knee while using the other to smooth her hair into place. She vaguely thought of Shara and how much her friend would laugh at the situation if she were here. _I’m turning into you, Bey,_ Jyn thought as she pinched some colour into her cheeks. _You should be here to witness my disgrace. Not half way around the world with Jacqueline bloody Cochran!_

After she did all she could to fix her appearance, she crept downstairs, making sure not to make too much noise. She made her way past her old bedroom and into Mrs. Figgs’ immaculate kitchen, which was thankfully empty. When she opened the backdoor just a crack, she found Cassian already waiting right outside, his lanky frame resting against the doorframe. 

She felt herself blush. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” he whispered. 

She lowered her eyes and opened the door a little wider. “You better come in, then.” 

From inside the kitchen, they could hear the afternoon program Mrs. Figgs had on in the living room and the sound of another tenant’s footsteps on the upstairs landing. So Jyn decided that she should go up first and Cassian would only follow once she’s made sure that the coast was clear. It turned out to be a rather awkward operation; a few false alarms occurred and Cassian barrelled straight into Jyn on the top of the stairs, leaving both quite red-faced. However, after much tip-toeing, they eventually managed to slip into her bedroom undetected. 

“Nice place,” said Cassian, once Jyn had shut the door quietly behind them. 

She scoffed. “It’s not nice at all. It’s a pig sty, really. I haven’t cleaned it in ages.”

He cracked a thin smile. “No, you’re right. Your room is an awful mess. I was just trying to be polite.” 

“Well, I think we’re both past the point of being polite to each other, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.”

He turned to face her. And the room, already no bigger than an opera box, seemed to shrink even smaller. Seeing him crammed into her little space, in between her bed and her wardrobe and her dressing table, amongst her books and clothes and possessions, caused the fear to return. Everything became unbearably awkward and wrong between them once more, like a person with too many limbs and legs jutting out in all the strangest directions. She became hyper-aware of every single thing - the way she was breathing, her dressing gown, her unkempt hair, the way his eyes kept travelling up and down her face. When she spoke, the words felt sticky and clumsy as they rolled off her tongue. 

“So what is it that can’t wait until our next flight?”

He leaned against her dressing table, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “That’s just it, Jyn. There won’t be a next flight. I’ve come to say goodbye.” 

She stood staring at him mutely for a long moment. “Oh.” 

“I’m…going away.”

“You’re _going away?_ What does that mean?” 

“I’m going away to France.” 

_France._ A part of her heart seemed to have dropped to the ground. “To do what?” 

“I can’t tell you. I _want_ to tell you, but I can’t. Careless talk and all that.” 

The familiar phrase brought up memories of the conversations they had in her plane and it pricked her anger. She asked curtly, “Are you going to be doing more of the same in France, then?”

“No.” He stood up a little straighter. “This is going to be something different. Something better. At least I hope it will be.” 

“Why are they sending you away? I’ve always had the impression that you’re quite valuable here.”

His moment of hesitation was brief, but she caught it. Then he looked her straight in the eye and said, “Jyn, I asked to be sent away.” 

Silence. Then the noise that escaped from her throat was a cruel laugh, laced with despair. She shook her head. “Is this because of what I said to you a year ago?”

They did not talk about it afterwards - the fight, the heated resentment between them. On that night she simply followed him back to the plane and flew him back to the airfield in silence. During the following months, neither of them ever brought it up again, and they skirted around the topic as though they were tip-toeing around hot coals. She had (somewhat) made her peace with it; he would do what he had to do and that’s that. But now to have the argument thrusted in her face again… 

“It has nothing to do with that,” said Cassian, a note of apology in his voice. “I saw an opportunity to do something different and to be of help, so I took it.” 

Suddenly, Jyn discovered that she could not bear to look at him. She marched over to her wardrobe and took out the half-empty bottle of whiskey she had hidden amongst her unwashed bedsheets and pillow cases. It was the bottle she and Shara had drunk together on her last night in England. With shaking hands, she produced a glass from under her bed and began to pour. Although her back was to him, she could feel the intensity of his gaze as she took the first sip and lit a cigarette. _Clink_ went the sound of glass against glass as she smoked and poured some more. _Clink, clink, clink,_ like a thousand angry bells. 

“Jyn, say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” Still she could not look at him. _What the bloody hell is wrong with me?_ She took another gulp of whiskey, followed by another hurried smoke. 

“I wanted to let you know in person. I didn’t want to…just disappear.” 

“How decent of you.” 

“I thought I owed you a farewell.”

“How polite.” She touched the cigarette to her lips. “I’m flattered, really.” 

He frowned. “You’re angry with me.”

“How very observant of you. But then again you’ve always been very observant. Annoyingly so.” Her anger finally made her whip around to face him again. “Are you so eager to throw your life away?” 

He bristled, his expression darkening. “I’m not throwing my life away.”

“Most people who go back to France die. They die. Don’t you think I know that? Do you think I’m an idiot?” 

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

“I didn’t say those things to you in the hope that you’d go on a suicide mission!”

“It is _not_ a suicide mission!” 

“Really? It’s _not_ a suicide mission?” She took a step toward him, her eyes blazing. “What else would you call a mission that sends a spy with rubbish French parachuting into Nazi-occupied France? _I_ would call it a suicidal one! I would also call it utter foolishness!” 

He looked startled in the face of her ferocity. “I know I can’t tell you what the mission is, Jyn, butI assure you, it is important work. _Necessary_ work. I thought you’d be glad for me, considering your obvious distaste for what I’m currently doing! I thought you’d be - ”

“Pleased?”

“Not pleased, but - ”

“Proud?” 

“God, no _._ ”

“Concerned?”

He flinched and looked away in embarrassment. She, however, carried on as though she had not noticed. “I shan’t give you the satisfaction of having my concern nor my approval,” she declared. “If you’re thick enough to _ask_ for this stupid mission, whatever it is, then you should bloody well be prepared for the consequences!”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t have come?” 

“No, you shouldn’t have.” 

“And you couldn't care less about what I do?” 

“You can do whatever the hell you like.” 

“Then why are you crying?” 

His words shot through her like a bullet. _Crying?_ she thought, alarmed. _Am I?_ Her hand jerked up to touch her cheek. And, there, sure enough, she felt the wetness of her tears. The second seemed to stay frozen in time. Then her eyes found his, and her voice broke as she whispered.

“Does it matter?” 

“Oh, it does. It does very much.” 

He moved quicker than she could ever imagine. In two short strides he had reached her and had gathered her up in his arms. The front of his shirt, when she buried her face into it, smelled of smoke. Of long train rides. Of rain. Of _him._ For a moment she felt him tense as though he was surprised by what he had done and by her sudden response, but then he relaxed and his embrace tightened. She felt his lips touch the top of her head. Light. Gentle. Fleeting. 

They clung to each other like that for a while. Until the spell was finally broken by the sound of a door opening and closing downstairs. Then they had to disentangle themselves, and went back to being awkward and stumbling in each other’s presence once more. 

“Drink?” she asked, turning away from him and hastily wiping away her tears. 

He gave a shaky laugh. “Why not?” 

A few minutes later, they were sitting on the floor with their backs to her bed, each with a glass of whiskey in hand. She had gotten rid of her cigarette. They kept up the pretence of normality for a while, with him asking about her landlady and her asking about his train journey. But then the conversation fell apart when there was nothing _normal_ left to say. 

“Jyn,” Cassian began softly, suddenly serious again, “I didn’t know about your father. Truly, I didn’t.” 

Her expression grew sober. “Cassian, that argument happened ages ago. It’s alright. I wasn’t in the wrong, but I wasn’t in the right either. You don’t have to apologise.”

“No, I do. On the first night we met, you mentioned your mother. If I had known about your father, I wouldn’t have - ”

“It’s over and done with.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“I never asked.” 

_You never asked anything,_ she thought. _And I just talked._ She lapsed into silence. 

Eventually she said, “They took him when I was eight.” She whispered it to him as if it were a secret and was taken aback by how _easy_ it felt. “My father was a scientist. One of the very best in Europe. They needed him for their planned invasion and their rise to power. But they didn’t need my mother. So they killed her when she tried to save him. I was hiding in the bushes and saw everything.”

She could feel him tense beside her. “I understand what that’s like.”

“I saw her fall to the ground. And then I saw them take my father away in a black car. I could do nothing but watch. I was…too little. Too frightened.” She took another sip of whiskey. “I crawled into our cellar and hid there for a day in the dark. That’s where Saw found me. Saw Gerrera. He was a friend of my parents. He took me in and raised me.”

The name brought an intake of breath from Cassian. “Saw Gerrera? The resistance fighter?” 

“The very same.”

“So your training…your pilot experience…”

“Was with him.” 

For the first time in years, Saw’s lined face - broken, serious, terrifying - appeared before her, causing another wave of sadness to rise up. She took another sip of whiskey to smother it down.

“When I was sixteen, I heard through our contacts in the Nazi party that Hitler had had enough of my father. Papa was hard to control. And he’s done everything he’s meant to do, you see? Weapons. Bombs. Tanks. So…” She lifted her hand, mimed a gun and pulled the imaginary trigger. _Boom._ It took another sip of whiskey to take the sting away from her words. “Just like that. Gone.” 

“And Gerrera?” 

The big man had told her to hide. _Not a sound, child. Silent as a grave._ She took another drink, sloshed the liquor around in her mouth before swallowing. “He left me. They all left me.”

“Why?” asked Cassian, in an oddly constricted voice. 

“To keep me safe, I suppose. I can’t know for certain.” She shrugged again. “Hitler became Fuhrer that year, and after the Night of the Long Knives…the resistance might as well hadn’t existed at all, the Nazis were so powerful. There wasn’t much - ”

“Much you could do, yeah.” Cassian gave a heavy sigh, and stared into the depths of his glass. “I’m sorry, Jyn.”

“It’s perfectly fine. Everything worked out, didn’t it? After a fashion. I managed to make my way back here, met Shara, became an ATA pilot.” She paused, then added softly, “I met you.”

He went still for half a heartbeat. “And where is Gerrera now?”

“Dead. Killed. They’re all dead now. I’m the only one left.” 

For a long while Cassian said nothing at all. Then he turned to look at her, and she was reminded once again by how tired his eyes were. 

“You’re not alone, Jyn.”

She cracked a smile. “It’s alright. I’m fine with being alone, honestly. People leave. It’s not sad or depressing, it’s just how it is. My parents. Saw. Kes. Shara. Even you.” 

“I can’t promise you that I’ll come back.”

“I know you can’t.” _But, oh, how I wish you would._ “But you can promise me that you’ll try your best to.” 

He gave her a rare smile. “I can do that.” 

“Good.”

“Good.” 

They talked well into the night. And when she woke in the morning, the first sound she heard was the soft, comforting rhythm of his breathing. She had fallen asleep on his shoulder, she discovered, and the tips of their fingers were now touching, as though they had reached out for each other during the night.

 

* * *

 

They were only a few miles from RAF Tempsford when Cassian told them to stop the car. 

Kay shared a startled look with the driver and turned around to face him. “Cassian, why are we stopping?” the blond man asked. “We’re nearly there.”

“I need to talk to you about something,” Cassian replied. Tempsford might be the SOE’s most secret airfield and their embarkation point for France, but there were still too many eyes and ears there for Cassian’s liking. 

Melshi, who was sitting beside Cassian in the passenger seat, let out a scoff. He pulled his cap down to cover his eyes and stretched out his legs. “Lovers’ tiff, driver, not to worry,” said the Scotsman. 

Cassian ignored the joke and directed all his attention to his best friend. “Kay, I promise, this will only take a moment.” 

“Yes, and Melshi is married to Ingrid Bergman.” Kay rolled his eyes. “I’m staying put, thank you very much.” 

“Fifteen minutes.” 

“No.”

“Ten.”

“Five.”

Cassian grimaced. “Alright. Five.”

Melshi let out a grunt which sounded more like a laugh. The driver, however, looked on in bewilderment as the two men left the car. 

Outside the weather had begun to cool, and the light was beginning to dwindle in the horizon. It had been a lovely day. There were hardly any clouds in the sky and no signs of rain. Perfect flying conditions for their drop later on in the night, Cassian reflected. The English channel would be a beautiful sight if they could only see it in the darkness. 

“Are you still angry with me?” Cassian asked his friend.

But as soon as the question slipped out, he realised he not have asked it at all. Of course Kay was still angry with him; he should not have expected any less. Kay had been angry with him ever since the moment he found out about the meeting with Draven and all the work he had been doing with _Prosper._ That night he’d had to stand in silence and listen to Kay rant for much longer than he had anticipated.

“So that’s where you’ve been disappearing to when we’re in London!” Kay had said. “I thought you were just holed up somewhere in some woman’s bed.” 

Cassian had winced. “Kay, I knew you wouldn’t understand.” 

“You’re right, I don’t bloody understand!” 

“I _had_ to do it.” 

After five more minutes of ranting, Kay finally sank down into his chair with his face in his hands. He gave a weary sigh. “I suppose there’s nothing to it. I better start packing, then.” 

That was when Cassian had to drop the bomb. “You’re not coming, Kay.”

The look of incredulity on Kay’s face had cut him deep. “ _Not coming?”_ Kay gaped. 

“I need someone here who knows me well. To help decipher my messages. If I were compromised, _you_ would know.”

_That_ prompted another argument which lasted for half an hour. Cassian, as expected, eventually won out, but as he stood there by the car in the evening light and surveyed his best friend’s expression, he could not help but feel as if the battle was still ongoing.

“Have you forgotten your poems?” Kay asked irritably. He crossed his arms and leaned against the trunk of the car.

They had decided to use poems as their preferred method of cryptography for when Cassian was in France. Five poems had been pre-arranged between them, with numbers given to a set of chosen words, and he had to remember every single one. Once he landed, he would rotate between the five poems according to the order they had decided on together. Tennyson, Keats, Donne - it was obvious who between them had done the choosing.

He shook his head. “No, I remember the poems.”

“Then what the bloody hell are we doing here?”

Cassian shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. _Here goes nothing,_ he thought. “Kay, I want to ask you for a favour.”

“ _Another_ favour?” Kay did not look surprised. Simply perturbed. 

Cassian brought the envelope out from his pocket and offered it to his friend. Kay, however, hardly looked at it and asked bluntly, “What’s this?”

“There’s a paper inside. With an address.” He paused for a moment. “If something were to happen to me, I want you to go to this address and tell the person living there what has happened. I want her to hear it from you.”

“ _Her?”_ Kay’s blue eyes grew large with alarm. “Whose address is this?”

“Jyn Erso's.”

“Jyn Erso?” For a moment Kay did not seem to understand. “I’ve heard that name before. Is that - by God, is that the bird Dameron mentioned when we were in Wormhoudt? The pilot? A friend of that American woman he was shagged up with?” 

Cassian did his best to keep his voice neutral. “Yes, the pilot.” 

“You met her only once! How could you possibly have - ” Kay’s eyes narrowed on Cassian and then everything clicked into place. “ _Oh._ I see.” 

“Kay - ”

“When?” 

Cassian’s mouth tightened. “She’s the pilot who’s been flying me on my night missions.”

“The tiny brunette?” 

“Yes.” 

“The angry, impatient one?”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

Kay gave a dry, humourless laugh, and waved away the envelope. “I’ve been a damn fool,” he said. “It all makes sense now. Every bloody thing!” 

“Kay - ”

“I thought all this - ” Kay waved a hand - “- _Prosper,_ France, Melshi, leaving me behind - I thought this was just one of your fits of gallantry. You have those from time to time. But now it all makes perfect sense.”

“You keep saying that, but _what_ makes sense?”

“This!” Kay thrusted a finger at the envelope in Cassian’s hand. “You’re doing all of this just to impress a bird you fancy!”

Cassian ignored the heat that had rushed to his face. “I’m not doing this to impress anyone. And I don’t fancy her.” 

Kay gave a snigger. “What else would you call it then? Generosity of spirit?” 

“We’re mates. That’s all.” 

“You’re getting yourself killed for a _mate_?” 

“I wish people would stop saying that.” Cassian scowled. His hand that held the envelope dropped down to his side. “I’m _not_ getting myself killed. I’m trying to do something good for once. Kay, have you no faith in me at all?” 

Kay became so still, he looked deadly white. “I can’t believe you would ask me that.” 

“Kay, I did not mean - ”

“A blind fool,” snapped Kay. “That’s what you are, Cassian. A blind fool. Do you remember the promise you gave me on our way back from Dunkirk?” 

_All I know is that I trust you,_ Kay had told him. Just before they saw the white cliffs of Dover. _Don’t take it for granted._

Cassian swallowed. “Of course I remember, Kay.” _But I have other promises now, too,_ he longed to say. 

Kay’s mouth tightened into a bitter smile. “You wouldn’t do all of this had you remembered.”

“That’s not fair, Kay. I’m trying to do the best I can. It was never my intention to hurt you.” 

“Save your guilt for your priest, I don’t need to hear it.” Kay grabbed the envelope from him with sudden force. He turned to get back into the car, his eyes hard as flint. “You’re a fucking bastard, Cassian. But I suppose you already know that.”

 

* * *

 

_Perfect flying conditions,_ Bodhi Rook thought as he surveyed the view from the comforts of his plane. _Hardly a cloud in the sky tonight. Stars. A large, bright moon. Perfect_

They called a full moon the bomber’s moon. Ever since he joined the No.138 Squadron a few short months ago, he had been longing for a bomber’s moon. But now that he had it, he found that he was not enjoying it as much as he thought he would. Although a full moon meant an easier flight for him, he was suddenly reminded that it could mean destruction for others. He could not help wondering which cities in Europe would be turned to rubble come morning. Both the Luftwaffe and the RAF would do everything they could to take advantage of such perfect weather; there was very little hope for anything else.

_It’s bloody typical of this war,_ Bodhi thought. _You can’t have the good without the bad._

Suddenly, a light flashed from the end of the runway. A signal. _Get_ _ready,_ he told himself. _Come on, Rook. You’ve done this a hundred times now. You’ve got this._

During his training and his short time at Tempsford, Bodhi had flown the Lockhead Hudsons, the Lizzies, even the Short Stirling bombers. Flown them over to France more times than he could count to drop off agents, weapons and supplies to the resistance. He was now used to the challenge; the squadrons at Tempsford had to fly in moonlight so often they’d been dubbed the ‘moon squadrons’. Tonight would be no different. 

He went over his final steps before takeoff: goggles on, gloves on, the map put over his knee, the engines roaring to life beneath his fingers. Before him the runway was a strip of silvery grey as smooth and endless as the ocean. He consulted his watch out of habit, and like clockwork, he could hear the night’s passengers approaching as soon as the hand hit twelve. Their footsteps were drowned out by the engines, but their voices were not. 

“ - these bloody parachutes need to be lighter - ”

“ - I’d rather take the weight than a broken neck - ” 

“ - does it ever grow tiring to be so bloody sensible all the time, Andor? - ” 

The first voice had a distinct Scottish lilt to it, the second slightly more subdued in tone but no less foreign. Bodhi turned around to watch as the two men hopped into the aircraft, ladened with gears and equipment. A cadet helped pull the door shut behind them. The Scotsman - light brown-haired and moustached - returned Bodhi’s curious glance with a lift of his hand. 

“Evening.” 

“Good evening,” Bodhi replied politely. 

But the other man, taller and darker, merely grunted as he settled into his seat. Remembering that he was not supposed to talk to his passengers at all, Bodhi did not return the gesture and turned back to his task. 

When the man spoke, it happened when they were air bound, with Tempsford nothing but a tiny dot below them. The sound was so unexpected that Bodhi flinched in surprise, his hand nearly slipping from the controls. 

“Are you Bodhi Rook?”

“W-what?” Bodhi gulped, turning around in panic. 

It was not the Scotsman who spoke; he had already fallen asleep, curled up like a cat. The man with the dark hair and dark eyes moved forward in his seat. “Don’t you worry about him,” the man said, indicating his sleeping companion. “He can sleep anywhere. And he sleeps like he’s dead to the world so he can’t hear us.”

“How - how do you know my name?”

The man pointed to the photograph he had stuck to his windscreen: his mother and him when he was ten years old. He was in his school uniform, and she stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders, her kind face framed by the _hijab_ she wore when she wed his father. It was the only family photo he had. 

“I’m sorry about your mother,” said the man.

“How did you - ”

“I know Jyn Erso. She mentioned you a few times during our conversations.” 

“Oh!” Bodhi’s eyes grew wide. “You’re…” He studied the man’s face, grasping for a name. “Are you…Cassian Andor?”

A flicker of… _something…_ flashed through Andor’s expression. “She mentioned me?”

“Once.” Then, more quietly, “Twice. Really, it was twice. In - in passing, mostly. But I know who you are.” 

The flicker of emotion was gone as quick as it came. Andor spared a glance out of the plane’s window.

"She shouldn't have told you about me. It's not safe." 

"Well...she did. But she only told me a little bit," Bodhi stammered. "I only know your name and that she - she flew you around."

"That she did."  Another moment of silence. Then Andor said,  “So you’re a proper RAF pilot now. Secret squadron, no less. Jyn didn’t mention anything.”

“That’s because - that’s because Jyn doesn’t know.” 

Bodhi had wanted desperately to tell her. He really did. After all, it was because of _her_ that he’s now flying night missions to France for the SOE. But he could not risk the truth getting out; he was under strict orders. So every time they met, which was less often now, he could only tell her how much he was enjoying himself. “Yes, but enjoying yourself doing _what?_ ” she’d asked, teasing. And the only answer he could give her was, “Flying, of course.” 

Bodhi asked Andor hesitantly, “Does she know you’re going to France?”

Andor nodded. “Yes, she does.” 

“There’s no point in asking what you’re going to be doing, is there?” 

Andor smiled thinly. “No.” He grew quiet for a moment as his gaze returned to the view outside his window. “The last time I crossed this channel I was in a boat, and I was going the other way.”

“Dunkirk.” Bodhi knew that Jyn had friends who were part of the evacuation.

“Yes,” said Andor. “I never thought I’d be coming back.” 

There was a peculiar note in the man’s voice that prompted Bodhi to study him more carefully. A grim thoughtfulness seemed to line the curve of the man’s mouth, and there was a downcast look in his eyes as he contemplated the waters below. 

“Do you - do you want me to pass on a message?” Bodhi heard himself ask. “To Jyn, I mean?”

Andor looked as though he might say ‘yes’, but then he shook his head hastily. Still looking out the window, he replied, “No, I suppose that won’t be necessary.” 

Bodhi had absolutely no idea what the man meant, but felt it was not his place to ask. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was return to his airfield and send a telegram to Jyn. Maybe they could meet for tea or a meal in a pub. It had been a while since they talked and he had a feeling they could both use a friendly face. 

He did not know what else to say to the stranger who was not really a stranger, so he flew in silence for a while, consulting his map and his compass. But then he heard Andor whisper softly from the seat behind him. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Bodhi.” 

Bodhi’s mouth jerked up in a smile. “It’s - it’s nice to finally meet you, too.” 

 

* * *

 

_Hello you,_

_There’s no need to be so dramatic, you silly goose. Of course I’ve been planning to write you! I’ve just been busy, that’s all. Pipe down._

_Mrs. Figgs moved me to another bedroom as soon as you left and I had to sort out my things and try to fit all the clothes you left behind into my tiny new wardrobe. What a chore! I told you to donate them or take them back with you, but oh no! you’re determined to come back for them one day and I mustn’t - absolutely mustn’t - throw them away! Unbelievable! With the way you’re behaving, are you sure there’s a war on?!_

_Not much is happening here, I’m afraid. Aster has decided to learn Mandarin, Anna now has a Swedish bloke - a pilot stationed in Bedfordshire - whom she would surely ditch in a few short months, and Rosemary has taken up poetry. All very trivial stuff, I’m afraid. Not much of your ‘slogging’ and ‘training’.No married male instructors. No stupid mascots hand drawn by Walt Disney or bloody Noel Coward or somebody equally famous. (Yes, Bey, I’ve seen your little creature and I am not the least bit jealous, I’ll have you know.)_

_…_

_Bugger. What else is there?_

_I’m not very good at this. Is one supposed to write an outline for these letters?_

_…_

_Oh. Yes! Mrs. Figgs adopted a new stray cat just last week. A tabby. Frightful creature. Hisses at me every time I go near._

_…_

_Damn it._

_The truth is I don't have much to write to you about, Bey. What is the purpose of letters anyway, when you have nothing monumental to share? No grand stories to tell? Don’t think me cold, I beg of you. Isn’t it enough that I’m writing to tell you I’m alive and well? That I haven’t gotten myself blown up in the sky above the British countryside somewhere?_

_I love you for worrying about me, though. But trust me when I say I’m really doing alright without you. Perhaps it’s the Britishness in me, but I think some people are not meant to_ _talk_ _to someone about their every thought and experience. Even with_ _you_ _I barely share anything! I have always found that my feelings seem even stupider and even more insignificant once they are voiced out loud. They are not at all worth the fuss, I’ve discovered. So isn’t it simply better to just…_ _carry on_ _? The more I talk about myself, the more everything about me becomes redundant. And that’s the worst thing a person can be: redundant. And I’d rather be completely irrelevant than be_ _that._ _Can you ever understand, Bey?_

_So this is the best I’ve got, I’m afraid. Take it or leave it._

_Must dash. Catching a train to meet Bodhi at Southampton for the day. And contrary to the nature of this letter, I really, really do miss you._

 

_J._

 

_PS: I’ve heard from a friend of a friend that Cairo did_ _not _ _see any fighting in Montgomery’s battles and is doing well. A bit hot, a bit busy, but all in all, unharmed. However, I’d rather you ask Cairo about his wellbeing yourself. I dislike being the middle man._

_PPS: Finally caught Casablanca. Blimey, that ending! I still can’t decide whether she made the right choice by getting on that plane! On one hand, she really_ _shouldn’t_ _have! But then again, she can’t_ _possibly_ _stay with Bogie! Or can she?_ _Can’t_ _she? I spent too long thinking about it, my head was spinning. Is this what romance is like? Thank goodness I’ll never find out!_

_._

_._

_._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnd we’re back on track, guys! Phew! ~~(That was a bit shit, wasn’t it?)~~
> 
> As always, the chapter title belongs to the genius that was Mr. William Shakespeare. Now for the history: 
> 
> \- The Prosper network was established in and around Paris in 1942 by the SOE. It was led by Francis Suttill, along with two French women, Yvonne Rudelatt and Andree Borrel, who parachuted into France. Gilbert Norman, as mentioned by Draven, was another wireless operator who was part of the network. 
> 
> \- Henri Dericourt, a former pilot in the French Airforce, joined the network in January, 1943. His duty was to find landing grounds and organise plane transportation for agents. Another agent, Jack Agazarian, my inspiration for Melshi, became suspicious of Dericourt’s loyalty. When Agazarian returned to England in June, 1943, he expressed his suspicions to Maurice Buckmaster, the head of the SOE, and Nicholas Bodington, his deputy. However, both Buckmaster and Bodington were unconvinced. 
> 
> \- In June and July, 1943, new agents who were sent to France like Noor Inayat Khan (more on her in the next chapter) began to lose contact with many prominent members of Prosper, including Suttill, Rudelatt and Borrel. Messages from Gilbert Norman’s wireless, however, were still being sent to the SOE in London. Leo Marks, head of codes and ciphers, was convinced that Norman had fallen under the control of the Gestapo. In late July, Agazarian finally convinced his superiors to send him back to France to investigate the matter. Bodington accompanied him. 
> 
> \- In this story, Lyra was killed and Galen taken in 1926. This year was part of the period that’s been termed “The Quiet Years” for Hitler, when he began to consolidate his power and dream of the future of the Reich. Joseph Goebbels, who later became Minister of Propaganda, came to Hitler’s attention during this time. 
> 
> \- The death of Galen and Saw’s abandonment of Jyn when she was sixteen occurred in 1934, the year Hitler became Fuhrer of Germany. The Night of the Long Knives was a purge that took place from June 30 to July 2, 1934, when the Nazis carried out a series of executions to consolidate Hitler’s hold of the country. The paramilitary wing of the party, the Sturmabteilung, was decimated, making way for the rise of the SS later in the war. Although there was resistance to Nazism in Germany, it yielded no major results. Saw and Galen's tragic deaths were meant to reflect this.
> 
> \- RAF Tempsford, located in Bedfordshire, was the base for secret squadrons who specialised in transporting agents, supplies and ammunition to and from France by night. Bodhi’s squadron, the No. 138 Squadron, was amongst them. These pilots flew without lights, and were dubbed “the Moonlight Squadrons” and “The Cloak and Dagger Squadrons”. 
> 
> \- In regards to Shara’s letter, the training base for the WASP was really nicknamed “The Cochran Convent”, and the conditions and lack of resources in Houston - not enough rest rooms, the heavy fog, the clay etc. - really did delay the graduation of the first WASP class from May to April, 1943. It’s true that only married men were qualified to instruct the WASPs, and their mascot, a female gremlin called Fifinella, was really conceived by Roald Dahl and drawn by Walt Disney. Even though the women in the ATA eventually received equal pay in 1943, the WASP pilots never did, hence Shara’s “dismal pay” comment. More about the WASP in future chapters. 
> 
> \- _Casablanca_ was indeed released in 1943. I’ve shoehorned it in just because I love it so much. If you haven’t seen it, what have you been doing with your life? Go see it now! 
> 
> —
> 
> If you’ve gotten this far, both in the story and in this chapter, well done! Again, please leave a review; it really does mean a lot. You’re also welcome to talk to me about anything, be it writing, books, films, tv shows, the state of Oscar Isaac’s hair etc. [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> —
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “Make Death Proud To Take Us: Part II” - in which we visit Kes in Cairo and see how Cassian fares in France_


	8. Make Death Proud To Take Us: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we visit Kes in Cairo, Egypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally supposed to include Cassian and Melshi’s exploits in France as well, but it grew too long so I had to split it in half. But fear not! I already finished the first draft of Cassian’s part so I’ll be able to update very, very soon! 
> 
> Confession: I’m perfectly aware that this chapter is not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. It’s quite ponderous, very character-focused, and I did try some things that might not have landed. That said, I had a roaring time doing research for this, and I’m very proud of certain moments in this chapter. Hopefully you’ll feel the same way! 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than the new Margaret Atwood adaptation _Alias Grace_ on Netflix. (Go watch it!) So please leave one if you can!

**_Previously:_ ** _After coming back to England, Kes asks Shara to marry him, but she tells him no._ _During his time in France, he has permanently injured his leg, so in 1942, he is sent to Cairo to do a desk job. Now under the command of General Bernard Montgomery, the British forces win The Second Battle of El Alamein in October, 1942, a crucial victory for the Allied forces in Africa. Shara, on the other hand, has moved back to America to join their first female ferrying unit, the WASP._

* * *

  

_ANTONY_

_I am dying, Egypt, dying:_

_Give me some wine, and let me speak a little._

 

_CLEOPATRA_

_No, let me speak; and let me rail so high_

_That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel,_

_Provoked by my offence._

 

**William Shakespeare** , 'Antony and Cleopatra'

 

* * *

 

**Cairo, 1943**

 

The sun burned in the sky like a giant ball of fire. It rose and fell and rose again, stirring up dust and long forgotten dreams that turned all the days into one never-ending second. Sand had become the colour of milk in his eyes and water the colour of mud. Yet he sat and wrote and talked and limped and struggled. _We can’t imagine the place without you, Dameron,_ they liked to tell him. And he would smile and laugh like he always did. He who had always smiled too much. 

They had given him an office in the Semiramis Hotel that adjoined his bedroom, and from that little space he could feel the pulse of the city every single minute of every single day: the rushing of the Nile just below his window, the sounds of footsteps in the streets, merchants selling their wares, children playing, the distant humming of boats, tanks, whistles, bicycles, cars. The fan he had stolen from the dining room downstairs sat at an awkward angle on top of his document cabinet, but it could not quell the heat that had crept in on its hands and knees, determined to drag him down. 

The cool air the fan emitted was incredibly thin; it barely ruffled the papers on his desk, only stirred them with a light gentle finger. Churchill’s travel arrangements for the conference in November; Roosevelt’s accommodation details; the ambassador Sir Miles Lampson’s letter to a colleague back in London; a report of a recent arrest in Alexandria; General Montgomery’s latest enquiry about the exiled King Farouk; a party invitation for the Ambassador from a Wafd politician. It begged the question of why guns were needed at all. He had begun to think that perhaps this was how the world was shaped; not by actions of ordinary men and women toiling in the mud, but by powerful men writing letters in spacious meeting rooms.

His leg was throbbing painfully today. He had to ask for an extra chair so he could prop it up. Going to the toilet meant he had to walk on it, so he did his best not to drink too much water throughout the day. In the morning he only took three sips as he copied out a surveillance report for a colonel. In the afternoon, after a dismal lunch of ham sandwiches, he managed another four sips as he typed out a report for the ambassador, composed an update on Cairo’s political situation to Montgomery, had a lengthy conversation on the phone with the secretary to the American ambassador about what Churchill would require in his hotel room for the conference. Then he lit a cigarette and began copying _another_ arrest report. _I’m fucking swimming in them,_ he thought bitterly. Ever since the British forced King Farouk to form a new government - one led by the Wafd party and, therefore, more supportive of the British war effort - rumbles of discontent had begun to spread among the Egyptian civilians and the Egyptian soldiers in the military. A puppet government, they called the Wafd party. Ruled by a puppet king. Fucking pandering to the British. 

At two in the afternoon, he took a short break, but only to go to the toilet. Miraculously, he managed to finish half a cigarette. But by two-fifteen, he was back in his seat again, wiping sweat from his forehead and starting work on a new report. 

It was an open secret in Cairo that no British personnel worked from one till five-thirty. He knew for a fact that most officers left their offices right after lunch, and in the afternoon could be found playing polo at the Gezira Club or drinking at Shepheard’s. The Turf Club, too, was always swarmed with men in uniform, enjoying French wines, cigarettes, beer, whiskey, women. He _could_ join them (he once briefly considered it), but his pride would not allow it. For no matter how important the tasks they saddled him with, he would always be the up-jumped soldier from nowhere with a broad, unpolished London accent who must work twice as hard to be considered useful. Those Etonian officers who swaggered pass in their crisp uniforms were friendly enough, but with every _“Dameron, old chap, be a sport and finish this report for me,”_ or “ _Back when I was up in Oxford, if you only knew…”_ , it was clear to him where he stood. Slacking off was, therefore, never an option. 

At four o’clock on the dot, there was a knock at his door. He barely glanced up, but said, “Come on in, mate, you’re right on time.” 

The door opened to reveal a man dressed impeccably in the uniform of a hotel butler. He carried a tray of tea and various savoury assortments, a friendly smile on his weathered face. 

“Good evening, sir. Today I’ve managed to find those chocolate biscuits you like so much.”

“Ah, thank God!” Kes cried, throwing down his pen. “And, Kareem, how many times have I told you not to call me ‘sir’? It’s Kes. Do I look like an uptight toff to you?”

“No, sir,” replied Kareem, smiling. He was always smiling. “But it is common courtesy, sir. Where do you want the tray?” 

Kes’ eyes swept over his messy workspace. “Ah, bloody hell.” He groaned and removed his bad leg from the extra chair. “Put it here, then. There’s no other place for it.”

“Do you want the window open even more, sir?” asked Kareem as he put the tray down expertly on the chair. “It’s very hot today.”

“It’s hot _everyday_ , mate.” He took a sip of the tea - _Kushari_ tea, popular in lower Egypt; black and sweetened with cane sugar and fresh mint leaves. Kareem had already added the milk. 

“The sun will set in a few hours, sir. Would you like to take a break and go downstairs to the common room for a bit?” 

“You know I can’t. Too much to do.”

“Very well, sir.” Kareem pushed the window open wider and turned around to smile at him. “I’ll return in a few hours with your dinner.” 

“Will there be wine?” 

“Wine. Whiskey. Bourbon. Take your pick, sir.”

“A pint of beer?” asked Kes, throwing the butler a hopeful look.

“That can be arranged, sir.”

“You’re the best man in Egypt, mate, do you know that?” 

Kareem grinned. “I try my best, sir.” 

True to his word, Kareem returned three hours later with his dinner. This time he made sure to move the typewriter to the ground and file the documents in the cabinet to make room for the tray.

“Steak!” he said happily once he saw the food. “Thank God for you, Kareem.”

“And a pint of _bouza_ , too, sir.” The butler gestured toward the pint of local beer he managed to squeeze onto the tray. 

“Ah. Heaven!” He waved a hand. “Come. Sit. Let’s eat.” 

When Kes first asked Kareem to join him for dinner, the butler had been so shocked, he refused right away. “It wouldn’t be proper, sir,” he had said. “I’m supposed to have my meals with the other butlers in the staff quarters.” But Kes had said that was nonsense, and insisted and insisted and insisted until he finally relented. 

Kes cut the steak in half, put one half on an extra plate with some mashed potatoes, and pushed it toward Kareem. Like always, Kareem brought his own food to share as well: cheese, the _Duqqa_ \- a dip made from chopped nuts and spices, and the thick, hearty local bread called _eish baladi._ The beer, however, Kes had all to himself. 

They had finished the steak and the cheese when the conversation came around to Kareem’s family, who lived in a little village outside of Cairo. Because of his job, he seldom visited them, but Kes knew he sent them money, letters and gifts whenever he could. 

“How is your wife doing?” asked Kes, tearing apart a piece of _eish baladi._ “Has she recovered from the flu?” 

“Last time I heard from her, she said she’s doing much better, sir.”

“And the girls?”

“They’re keeping busy like they always do, sir.” Kareem’s smile brightened. “It will be Nadeen’s birthday this Saturday. She’s turning eight. I’m sending her a book.”

“A book?”

“An encyclopaedia,” said Kareem proudly. “She likes big books with lots of writing. She is very smart, my Nadeen. ” 

“I’m sure she gets that from her mother.” 

The butler chuckled. “I’m certain she does, sir.” 

“Can you get her something from me?” He put down his pint of beer, took out his wallet. “What else does she want?”

“Sir, you don’t have to - ”

“Nonsense! We’re mates, aren’t we? And I’m the reason why you don’t get to see your family enough. Me and the entire British army!” He pulled out a couple of bank notes and tossed them over to Kareem. “Get her _another_ encyclopaedia, how about that?”

Kareem looked flustered. “Thank you, sir, but you really don’t need to. I can’t possibly - ”

“Buy the goddamn encyclopaedia, mate.” 

“Yes, sir,” Kareem mumbled. He reached over to take the money and pocketed it. 

Satisfied, Kes leaned back in his chair and grabbed his pint again. “Tell her it’s the least I can do for her father.” 

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed. “Kes. It’s Kes. How many more times do I have to correct you?”

“At least once more, sir.”

He laughed, nearly choking on his beer. “You’re alright, Kareem.” 

“Thank you, sir.” The butler smiled warmly. “Would you like another beer tomorrow?”

“Why not?”

“Was today a long day, sir?” 

He felt the smile sliding off his face. “All the days are long, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

The sun burned in the sky like a giant ball of fire. Its rays lashed out at him the moment he stepped out of the car. It was Friday, his day off, and he returned, like he always did, to the cafe on Clot Beys street. 

He took his usual seat by the window. There he could see everyone who came in and out - from those who entered for a meal or a cup of tea or coffee, to those who passed through the cafe on their way to the brothel next door. It was still late afternoon so the place was not yet packed with locals and British Tommies, but there was another table that was occupied by a familiar figure: an Egyptian man in his fifties with a large bushy beard who was slumped over a glass of beer.

“You look thin,” came the usual greeting.

Kes smiled, his gaze snapping from the drunk man to the woman who had just greeted him. “Good afternoon to you too, Maz.” 

Maz Kanata, the cafe owner, was a tiny black-skinned woman with small droopy eyes that always looked on him disapprovingly. She stood before him now with her hands on her hips, tutting impatiently. “Why do you always look so thin?”

“You always say that.” 

“Because you always are.” Maz wiped her hands on her apron. “As thin as a railing.” 

“Feed me, then.”

“With the usual?”

“With the usual.” 

“Suit yourself.”

“You’re the best, Maz.” He nodded over to the drunk man. “A bit early today for ol’ Sharif, isn’t it?” 

Ever since Kes started coming to Maz’s cafe on Fridays, he had seen Sharif every evening, but perhaps not always this early in the day. The man barely spoke a word to anyone. However, everyone seemed to know who he was. From what Kes had heard from Maz and the girls, the man had ridden in the Arab Revolts when he was in his early twenties and joined the Egyptian revolution in 1919. A war hero. Of sorts. “What the bloody hell is he doing _here_ , then?” Kes had asked, shocked. But all the answer he got from the girls was, “You have to ask him yourself.” 

“Some days he comes in early.” Maz shrugged. “He will go upstairs soon.” ‘Upstairs’ meant the nearby brothel, of which Sharif was a regular. 

“Is he drunk already?” asked Kes, a little impressed and a little wary. 

“Nearly.” Maz wiped her hands on her apron again. “How about you, child? A drink?”

“Not today. Although I would like - ” 

“A talk.” Maz nodded. “Perhaps we’ll wait for when the place is more crowded.” 

“Of course. Whenever you like.” 

Maz inclined her head in acknowledgement and returned to the kitchens. Not long after, a waiter brought him tea, a small basket of _eish baladi_ bread, and a dip he was partial to called _tehina -_ made from sesame, lemon juice and garlic. Then the waiter returned with his usual main course: _Barmia,_ a traditional lamb stew bursting with flavours from tomatoes, onions, garlic, vegetables and other spices he could never name. More customers arrived. He sat and ate and watched as they took their seats. It was rather comforting; he had always loved being around people, and this was the closest he had to being around friends. 

The entire time, however, the man called Sharif slept over his glass of beer, a great mass of matted hair and stained clothes. Finally, after Kes had finished his meal and started on his third cup of tea, he saw the great mass stirred. The older man took in his surroundings with blurry eyes, and then drowned the last drops of his beer. He stood up with shaking legs, threw a couple of coins on the table and stumbled to the stairs. A woman’s arm reached down for him. Laughter followed, and he was dragged up, drunk and in a stupor, to enjoy the company of whichever woman they gave him that day. Kes had a feeling he would not care which. 

“You should charge him extra,” Kes told Maz once she had circled around to his table again. “He drinks here and fucks up there and doesn’t tip.” 

“Is that how you British men think?” asked Maz, sitting down opposite of him. 

Kes shrugged. “It’s just good business, Maz. You’ll thank me one day.”

“Our business is fine.”

“It could be better.” 

The woman tutted in warning. “Is the food to your taste, then?”

“It always is.” He took a sip of tea and lit a new cigarette. “Do you have any news for me, Maz?” 

“If I do, will your pay Sharif’s tips for him?” 

“That depends on the news.” 

“Then prepare to pay, child.” Maz smiled and lit a cigarette of her own. She leaned forward as she spoke, her voice nearly swallowed up by the din of noise in the bustling cafe. “A Jewish cabaret dancer came in two days ago. A sharp girl. Knows many of my nephews. She told me of a luxurious houseboat on the Nile filled with German spies.”

Kes spluttered mid-smoke. “A bloody houseboat?”

“The bastards are loaded with English money. And they seem to have been partying more than spying. Seems the city has gotten to them. And the women too. Such men can never resist excess.” 

Kes let out a whistle and grinned. “It’ll be an easy raid, then. I’ll get our lads on it.” 

“Good.” Maz levelled him with her no-nonsense stare. “And perhaps something for the dancer?”

“What does she want?”

“Passage. To England.” 

Kes hesitated. Passage for refugees was a tricky thing to get. But he said, “Alright, I’ll do what I can.” 

“I’ll tell her that.” 

“Thank her for me, will you, Maz?”

“Of course. I always thank them for you.”

At that moment, a young woman appeared on the bottom of the stairs. She was so lovely that heads immediately turned toward her. She had full lips and round dark eyes that drank everything in lusciously, long black hair that fell to her waist, hips that swayed like music when she walked. Dozens of silver bracelets wrapped around her wrists and ankles, and they tinkled and whispered as she moved. 

Maz turned to her as she approached. “Yara, what is it, child?”

“He wants two more bottles,” the young woman said. She gave Kes a bright smile. “Hello, Mister Soldier.” 

“Hello, Yara.”

“Two more bottles?” said Maz, frowning. “He’s had three already.”

“The man can’t fuck if he’s not blind drunk.”

“I thought he’s blind drunk already,” Kes said, chuckling. 

“Not enough.” 

Maz sighed. “Go to the counter and tell Asim. He’ll put it in the book.”

“Thank you, Maz.” She winked at Kes. Her eyes sparkled in a way that lit up her entire face. “Care to join us, Mister Soldier?” 

“I would hate to intrude on your charming evening.” 

“The more, the merrier.”

“Next time, perhaps.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

She departed with another wink, her bracelets tinkling as she went. A scent of perfumed roses hung in the air after she had gone.

“Smart girl,” Maz commented softly. She finished her cigarette and lit another. “Stay well away from her, child.”

“Don’t worry.” Kes heard himself replying. “I always do.” 

The next day, when Kareem brought him tea in the afternoon, he looked up from his mountain of documents and asked, “Do you miss your wife, Kareem?”

The butler looked confused. “I suppose I do, sir.” 

“Does she miss you?” 

“She says she does, sir.” 

“And do you believe her?” 

Kareem turned his head sideways to look at him, his expression suddenly serious. “Is everything alright, sir?” 

_No, everything’s not alright,_ he thought. _Everything’s a bloody mess. And I’m fucking lost._ But all he said was, “Do me a favour, Kareem. Don’t let me go mad in this heat.”

Kareem’s cheerful smile returned. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” 

 

* * *

 

The sun burned in the sky like a giant ball of fire. He sat at his desk and worked and sat at his desk and worked again. International correspondents; party invitations; official reports; arrest reports; surveillance reports; espionage reports; military reports; staff reports. _Clack, clack, clack,_ went his typewriter. His pen made mark after mark on paper after paper. His leg ached and his head ached with it. It was nearly November; the conference with Churchill, Roosevelt and the other world leaders would be held here soon. Somehow he did not think he would be alive long enough to see it. 

“Kareem, I don’t think I have time for tea today,” he said one afternoon, not looking up when the knock came. “Take that tray back to the kitchens or have it for yourself, I don’t bloody care.”

“Sir?”

Kes froze. Looked up from his work.

The boy was at least two decades younger than his friend. A slip of a lad, with wisps of hair on his upper lip. The butler uniform hung uncomfortably on his lanky frame like it would on a stick scarecrow. 

“You’re not Kareem,” said Kes, rather dumbly. “Where’s Kareem?”

“He - he…I don’t know who you’re talking about, sir.”

“Kareem. My butler,” said Kes impatiently. “Where the bloody hell is he?”

“I don’t know who he is, sir,” the boy stammered.

“How can you not know who he is?”

“I really don’t know, sir. I don’t - ” The boy’s hands shook with panic. “Please, sir, what else can I get you?” 

Sighing, Kes waved a dismissive hand. “Just put the tray down on this chair here, mate, and go.” 

Perhaps Kareem was busy in the kitchens or with other guests, he thought. Perhaps something came up. It was nothing to worry about. He would be back this evening and they would share their meals like they always did.

But when dinner time came around, it was the same boy who returned with his meal, which he ate alone for the first time in months. The next day brought no Kareem either, nor the day after, nor the day after that. Eventually, after a week had passed, Kes limped downstairs to confront the concierge at the lobby.

“Kareem, sir?” the concierge asked, blinking rapidly.

“Yes, Kareem,” sighed Kes, trying to keep his voice civil. “He was butler here. Since before I came to Cairo.” 

“Last name, sir?”

_Fuck. How come I don’t know his last name?_ he thought, panicked. But all he said was: “Never mind his last name! Do you know who he is, man?”

The concierge reddened. “I think he has quit, sir. Perhaps he has gone home. A family emergency.”

“A family emergency?” Kes frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense. He would have told me. Or left a message.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.” The concierge lowered his eyes. “That’s all we’ve been told, sir.” 

_That’s all we’ve been told._ Kes mulled over that statement for days, but still Kareem did not show. Every excuse he gave himself for his friend’s absence became even more futile; had there really been an emergency of some sort, Kareem would have gotten word to him by now, he was sure. He considered talking to his colleagues or some of the British officers, but he knew they would not care. “He’ll show up soon, Dameron,” they would say. Or they would probably lie by telling him they’d look into it. 

Eventually, desperate for help and for answers, he told Maz what had happened during one of his Friday visits to her cafe. 

“I just want to know if he’s alright,” said Kes. “Get in contact with him.” 

“Kareem?” Maz wrinkled her nose. “A butler at the Semiramis?”

“Yes. A friendly chap. My height. A couple of years older than me. A wife and two daughters.” 

“I’ll ask around. See if anyone knows anything.”

“Thanks, Maz, you’re a life-saviour, you are. I’ll tip extra.”

But Maz simply gave a snark of laughter as she walked back to her kitchens.

That night he sat in the cafe for much longer than usual, drinking tea and smoking. He sat as Sharif went up the stairs, sat as more customers arrived after midnight, sat as drunken British officers stumbled out of the club across the street. He did not know why he sat, but he sat all the same.

Finally, a little after one in the morning, Yara strolled down, her hair all a-tangled. She spotted him, came over and took Maz’s empty seat. There were tiny fake diamonds on her cheeks and on her forehead, along the planes of her collar bone and down the curves of her chest. They sparkled every time she turned to catch the light.

“You look lonely, Mister Soldier. Are you in need of company?” 

“I’m enjoying myself just fine, love.” 

“Can I have a piece of your bread?” She reached over and plucked a piece of bread from his basket. Her bracelets sang as she dipped the bread into the _tehina._ “I’m starving, in case you can’t tell.”

“Help yourself, Yara. You always do.” 

“Splendid.” 

For a brief moment he wondered how old she was; probably not much older than him, he reckoned. He wondered how she grew up, where her parents were. If she had a lover somewhere who did not leave money on her pillow every morning when he left her bed. He wondered and watched as she finished the bread. Then watched as she licked the crumbs and grease off her slender fingers one by one. She caught him watching. 

“We can give you a night cap upstairs,” she told him coyly. 

He cracked a laugh. “Thank you for your hospitality, love, but I can call a car to pick me up.” He held up his packet of cigarettes. “Want one?”

“Yes, please.” 

She took one from him, had it clamped between her teeth and let him light it for her. Then she leaned back in her chair and regarded him quietly with her dark emotional eyes. 

“If you preferred men, I could recommend another place.” 

“That’s nice of you, love, but that’s not necessary,” he told her gently. “It’s only that I try not to make a habit of sleeping with - ”

“Prostitutes?”

“No.” He smiled, amused. “I try not to make a habit of sleeping with women just for the night. I’ve been there, done that. Had a rotten time.”

“Did she break your heart?”

He attempted a weak smile. Thought it must look more like a grimace.

She said, “It doesn’t have to be just for the night, Mister Soldier.” Her beautiful shoulders rose and fell. “Sharif keeps coming back.” 

“That’s Sharif. He’s a bloody mess.”

“If not just for the night, you can always marry me,” she said simply. “Take me back to your country. Dress me in fancy clothes and put a ring on my finger. I’ll be the life of all your parties.”

He could not help but laugh. “You are endlessly fascinating, love, but I’m afraid I’m not the marrying kind.”

Those oh-too-memorable lips curved into a smile. “Liar,” she said.

“I never lie.”

“Then would you tell me the truth if I were to ask why you have such sad eyes?” 

And that was how he found himself talking about Kareem. He told her about their friendship, Kareem’s disappearance, and the conversation he had earlier with Maz. He thought of telling her all the other things as well; about Dunkirk, Shara and his friends in England, just because he did not have anybody else to talk to. But he stopped himself just in time. He knew the trap: it is never wise to let loneliness do the talking. 

To his surprise, she laughed when he finished his story. 

“I’m glad you find the disappearance of my friend funny,” he said, a little confused. 

_That_ made her laugh even more. “I’m not laughing at him, silly.” She took the cigarette away from her lips, turned her head sideways so that the diamonds on her right cheek winked at him in jest. “I’m laughing at _you._ ” 

“Whatever for?”

“He talks with you and listens to you because you asked him to. He has dinner with you everyday because he cannot tell you ‘no’.” She shook her beautiful head and looked at him as if he were but a child and she a much older, much more world-weary woman. “He’s just your butler, Mister Soldier. He’s not your friend.”

He felt a stab of annoyance. “It’s not like that. You don’t know him.”

“I don’t need to. Perhaps he and I are alike. Have you ever thought of that?”

“You’re wrong about him. We’re friends. You’ll see.” 

Sarcastically: “Oh, I can’t wait.”

“But I’m afraid this decides the matter once and for all,” he said, trying to sound cheerful again. “I can never be with someone who laughs at my plight like you just did. So there’s no way on earth I can marry you, love.”

She smiled a sad, lovely smile. “How tragic. We could have been happy together.” 

“Too happy, I expect.” 

“There’s no such thing.” 

 

* * *

 

The sun burned in the sky like a giant ball of fire. It had rained the night before, but there was no trace of coolness in the air. The fan in the cafe was broken this Friday, so before he took his usual seat, he pushed the window open a little wider, hoping for a slight breeze. The waiter came and went, bringing his tea, his bread, his salad, his cheeses. But he found he had no stomach for it. He sat and smoked. Watched as the sun slowly made its way down the bright blue sky. He was early. Much too early. 

After a while, Maz came over from the kitchens and they had their normal talk. You’re too thin, she said. Like a railing, she said. Feed me, he said. Bring me all the food. She laughed, he laughed, and she sat down for a smoke. Any news for me? he asked. She shook her ancient head, rubbed her wrist with agitation against the course fabric of her apron. No news at the moment, she replied. What of the lead she gave him last time? We caught the bastards, he said. Rounded them up good and proper. She only smiled, and smoked some more.

Eventually he said, “Out with it.” 

She gave an amused _tut_ as she put out her cigarette. “I had wanted to feed you first before I break the news.”

“I don’t seem to have an appetite.” 

“That’s why you’re so thin.” She cracked a wry smile. “It is not good news, I’m afraid, child.” 

“Not good news.” He pursed his lips. Got himself ready. “Alright. What is it?”

“Your friend. Kareem.” She waved a hand, swatting away the lingering smoke from her dead cigarette. “He’s been arrested.”

“No,” replied Kes immediately. “He’s not been arrested. You’re wrong.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And how would you know?”

“He’s not a German spy, that’s how I know!” He heard his own voice rising in protest. “He can’t, _can’t_ have been arrested!” 

Pity swam in Maz’s small eyes. “Child, he’s not been arrested because he’s a German spy.” 

His cigarette fell to the floor, forgotten. “I don’t understand,” he spluttered. “This makes no bloody sense.” 

Maz’s chest heaved with effort as she drew in a long breath. She paused for a very long while. Looked at him carefully before she said, “Last year, when your troops surrounded the palace and forced our king to ask the Wafd party to form a government, what did you expect would happen?”

“That there’d be an Egyptian government that would support the British war effort.” 

But as soon as he uttered that party line, he understood what Maz was saying. He rubbed his sweaty forehead, despair clawing at his heart. He thought of the arrest reports he had to copy over the months. None had born Kareem’s name, of course; he had made sure to look at every one. But the _amount_ of them. _I’m fucking swimming in them._ And then there were the disgruntled murmurings he had been hearing from the locals…

“Kareem was spying on all the British officers in the Semiramis hotel. But he wasn’t spying for the Germans,” said Maz slowly. “In this country, we have been at war with you for far longer than you have been at war with us. Don’t forget that.” 

He shook his head stubbornly. 

“But - Maz… that still makes no sense. If Kareem was one of those revolutionary citizens, if he hated us, if he wanted us out…he would have talked to me. Told me. I would have understood.”

“Would you, child?” 

“Yes, I would,” he replied without hesitation. “And I might have helped…warned him…He should have told me.” 

“But he didn’t.”

In desperation: “ _Why?_ ”

Maz gave a sad smile. “Because he felt he couldn’t.”

There were no words he could fall back on, so he fell back on silence. _He’s just your butler, Mister Soldier. He’s not your friend._ With a shaking hand, he drew out his packet of cigarette and lit up again. He had asked Kareem to buy an encyclopaedia for Nadeen’s birthday, and his wife had only just recovered from the flu. _Do me a favour, Kareem. Don’t let me go mad in this heat._

Somewhere there was a different scenario to this; a parallel universe where he could march up to his bosses and demand his friend’s release. A world where they would listen, usher him into Kareem’s cell and let him take the Egyptian back out into the sunlight again. But, no, he knew such a world existed only in his imagination. If he said anything at all, his bosses would only deny it. The British were here to stay; this was a fact. The helplessness he felt was worse than the sadness. 

“Go home, child,” said Maz suddenly. 

“Would you mind ringing for the car, then?” he asked in a strange brittle voice.

“I don’t mean home to your hotel. I mean home. To your real home.” The tiny woman covered his hand with her own wrinkled one. “I’ve lived long enough to see the same eyes in different people. I’ve seen your eyes, child. I know your eyes. You. Sharif. All the rest. You all have the same eyes. You’ve seen too much of war.”

“France was war. This is not war.Here I only sort papers, Maz.” 

She shook her head. Tutted again in that usual way of hers. “You’re still too stubborn,” she said, her voice heavy with sadness. “And still too thin. Much too thin.” 

He could only give her a broken little smile, afraid that she’d think he was no longer capable of smiling.

“The car,” he said. “If you don’t mind, Maz.” 

An hour later, he found himself sitting at the bank of the Nile, still smoking. He should probably stop, but at the moment, the habit gave him comfort in a way that no other habits could. 

There were children playing in the shallows of the water. The sun was now kissing the edge of the horizon, turning the entire sky from blue to pink and bright orange. Everything looked strangely golden, he thought, as his eyes swept over the boats, the ships, the streets, the houses, the sand, the pyramids in the distance. He was tired, he realised. Exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion you feel after a hard day’s work, but the kind of exhaustion that seeps under your skin and attaches itself to your bones with dead fingers, making you cold all the time.

He got to the end of his cigarette and dropped it into the river. Almost without thinking, he lit another one. 

In France he and his friends had smoked all the time to quell the hunger, he remembered. They would each have their own pack, but whenever they ran out, they would share. He would always finish first. Cassian was always a close second. Kay, however, hoarded his religiously. The recollection nearly made him smile, but it was a bittersweet smile now. His friends had never felt so far away, as if they existed in a different universe entirely.

_Scotch?_

_Yes. A family heirloom. Consider it a parting gift. My way of saying don’t die out there._

_Blimey! I believe this might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me._

_And hopefully it will be the last, God help me._

He had tried to write them, _did_ write them, but had gotten no reply. Kay had sent a scribbled note once, telling him of nothing, except that they were both well, but that was it. Kes had to remind himself that it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was the bloody censors. None of them could write freely even if they had wanted to write. Still he yearned to see them face to face. Or simply sit with them and drink or smoke, even in silence. But now more than ever he wished he could talk to… to…

The papers that he kept in his trousers’ pocket were all creased and crumpled now, but he smoothed them out one by one. They were stained with coffee, tea, ashes from his cigarettes, but the writing on them was still clear as day. One paper read: _Dear Shara, I just want to let you know that I’m doing well. I hope you are too._ Another read: _Shara, I would appreciate it if you could get the bloody hell out of my head._ An older one had a whole paragraph describing the weather in Cairo. Another one just had her address in America. Another one simply had: _Shara._

He stared at them for a long moment before taking out the little pencil he kept tucked in his belt, and putting it to the only fresh sheet of paper he had left. 

_Dear Shara,_ he began again. _Dear Shara….Dear Shara…_

But _Dear Shara_ what? There simply weren’t enough _Dear Sharas_ in the world to make everything right again. 

So he sat and smoked and watched as the evening bled into night. Then he crumpled all his words together into a little ball and threw it into the river. He watched for a while as it bobbed and floated with the tide, until it finally went away from him, lost forever in the dark brown current.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title belongs to William Shakespeare. Now onto the history: 
> 
> \- Despite the formal recognition of Egyptian independence in 1922, the country was still essentially under British control during WWII. The British had two headquarters in Cairo: British Troops in Egypt (BTE), which was set up in the Semiramis Hotel on the Nile (where Kes works), and the General Headquarters Middle East in Garden City.
> 
> \- Cairo blossomed during the war, with soldiers and officers alike enjoying the benefits of the weather, the women, the parties, the luxuries etc. Things mentioned in the chapter - the names of the popular clubs and the working hours of the British officers - were all true. For refugees, the city was also a stopping place on their long journey to find a safe new home. 
> 
> \- The incident mentioned by Kes and Maz in regards to Kareem’s allegiance is the Abdeen Palace incident of 1942, where, on the night of 4 February 1942, British troops surrounded the palace of King Farouk I. Through its ambassador Sir Miles Lampson, the British government had been pressuring the king for a while now to form a new government - one led by the Wafd party who were seen as more supportive of the British war effort. During the seize of the palace, Lampson presented King Farouk with an ultimatum: form a new government or abdicate. Farouk capitulated and asked the Wafd leader to form a government. The incident caused most Egyptian civilians and soldiers to turn against the British and the Wafd, planting seeds for the Egyptian Revolution of 1952 that would abolish constitutional monarchy and see the rise of Gamal Abdel Nasser. 
> 
> \- The conference mentioned by Kes is the Cairo Conference which took place on November 22–26, 1943. The conference was held to discuss the Allies’ position regarding Japan and the state of postwar Asia. It was attended by Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill and Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek of the Republic of China. Joseph Stalin, however, did not attend. Instead he met with Roosevelt and Churchill two days later in Tehran.
> 
> \- There were indeed many German spies in Cairo during the war. The lead given by Maz was inspired by a true story; a Jewish cabaret dancer did unearth German spies who were living luxuriously in a houseboat on the Nile, their espionage mission forgotten once they had a taste of Cairo’s high-life. A Major A.W. Sansom of the British secret police rounded them up easily in a dramatic raid. 
> 
> \- Sharif’s background: the Arab Revolt occurred during June 1916 – October 1918, while the Egyptian revolution of 1919 was a revolution against the British occupation of Egypt and Sudan. The revolution resulted in recognition of Egyptian independence in 1922, but the British still refused to recognise full Egyptian sovereignty over Sudan or to withdraw troops from the Suez Canal Zone. This caused tensions between the British and the Egyptians that would dominate the political landscape in WWII and lead to the Egyptian revolution of 1952. 
> 
> \- Clot Beys was a popular prostitution area during the war, and the Egyptian foods mentioned in the chapter were all taken from my limited research. If you’re an Egyptian, or have been to Egypt, and spotted any mistakes, please let me know!
> 
> —
> 
> Again, thank you SO SO much to everyone who’s still reading and following this unconventional story. Please let me know what you think, and do not hesitate to talk to me about anything - be it books, tv shows, films, history etc. [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> —
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “Make Death Proud To Take Us: Part III” - in which we (finally) see how Cassian fares in France_


	9. Make Death Proud To Take Us: Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see how Cassian fares in France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so difficult to write and I’m still not _entirely_ satisfied with it, but here it is. Please be kind! 
> 
> **An important note** : Some events in this chapter are inspired by real life events (see end notes) and a few real life people do make appearances or are mentioned. However, I would like to stress that this story is _fanfiction_ ; it is meant purely to entertain and I did take certain liberties with the history because of Plot. I would never deign to think that my trashy work could, in any way, do justice to the brave men and women who really lived through this time period. 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than Otis Redding’s music. So please leave one if you can!

**_Previously:_ ** _Cassian meets Melshi, a half-French, half-Scottish agent who was in France as part of the Prosper Network. New operatives who are sent there have not been able to make contact with Prosper agents on the ground. However, an agent named Gilbert Norman is still sending messages back to London, but no one is sure if Norman has been compromised. Inspired by Jyn, Cassian wants to do more (or do better) for the war effort. So together with Melshi, he convinces Draven to send them both back to France to investigate what is going on._

* * *

 

_I used to talk of the Beauty of War; but it is only War in the abstract that is beautiful. Modern warfare is merely a trade._

**Roland Leighton** in a letter to **Vera Brittain** , 1915

 

* * *

  

**France, 1943**

 

It was raining outside when the phone rang. 

He looked up from his newspaper at Melshi, who was sitting on his bed fiddling with a radio set. For a moment neither of them moved. And the phone kept on ringing.

“Andor, are we expecting anyone?” asked Melshi, his suspicious gaze fixed on the phone. 

Cassian closed his newspaper. “Of course not.”

“Should we answer?” 

“I don’t think we should. What if it’s a trap?” 

“How would we know if we don’t answer it?” 

He shrugged. “Should we risk it then?”

“Just answer the goddamn phone, Andor.” 

He gave a sigh and reached over to pick up the phone.“Hello?” 

There was a pause at the other end of the line. And then the steely voice of their hotel owner: “Monsieur Rodriguez?” 

The name took him aback for a second, but then he recovered himself. Yes, he was Garcia Rodriguez now, he must remember. A photographer and filmmaker from Spain. Melshi was Jean Valle, his superior, a struggling film director from Cologne. And if they were stopped by the police on the streets, they had documents - albeit made in London - to prove it. _Garcia Rodriguez. Not Cassian Andor._

“Yes, this is Rodriguez.” 

Another long silence from the hotel owner. Then in slow measured French: “We have a package for you and Monsieur Valle. Should we send it up?”

Cassian spared a glance at Melshi. “Yes. Send it up,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Melshi stood up. “Who do you think it’ll be?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Dericourt?” 

“How the bloody hell would I know?” Cassian grumbled. “Sit down, Melshi. You’re making me paranoid.” 

The Scotsman ignored him. Instead he marched over to the window and lifted up the curtain, staring out into the hallway outside. They had been living in this hotel for nearly a month now under the pretence of shooting propaganda material for the Vichy government. The hotel owner and his wife were part of the Resistance and had put them up on the very top floor so they would have easy access to the rooftop and a good view of whoever was coming up from the lobby. 

“Can you see anything?” asked Cassian, putting aside his newspaper and lighting a cigarette.

Melshi continued staring. “A girl,” he said eventually. 

“A girl?”

“Small. Looks a bit shifty and a bit Indian.” 

Cassian frowned. “A bit Indian? For God’s sake, Melshi.” 

“Well, that’s what she looks like. I’m not - ” Melshi suddenly dropped the curtain. “She’s come to see us, alright.” 

At that exact moment, they heard the secret sequence of knocks at their door: one knock, two knocks, a pause, then three knocks in rapid succession, another pause, then another four quick knocks. Cassian lifted a finger as a signal and Melshi immediately moved to the door. Quietly, he whispered, “Who’s there?”

A female voice from the other side replied in perfect French: “This is Jeanne-Marie Renier. I’ve come to see Fulcrum and Valle.” 

“We don’t know a Jeanne-Marie,” said Melshi. 

“Do you know a Madeleine?” 

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Cassian gave a quick nod and Melshi pulled the door open. 

The woman was indeed small, and she looked even smaller wrapped in a huge trench coat that was soaked through with rain. Her hair came down to below her ears and her soft dark eyes looked large with alarm; clearly anxious, cautious, apprehensive. The moment the door was opened, she quickly stepped inside, kicking it close after her with her foot. 

“Madeleine,” said Melshi, offering her a hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you. We’ve met with your colleagues, Paulette and Alice, and they both mentioned you.” 

“Are they well?” she asked at once, shaking his hand. 

“Yes, they still haven’t been captured.” 

“Thank goodness!” She gave a huge sigh of relief and began unbuttoning her coat. “And please, call me Nora.”

“Nora?” Melshi walked back to the table and lit a cigarette of his own. “Is that your real name, ma’am?”

“Well, my real name is Noor Inayat Khan,” said the woman in a rush as she shook out her coat, sending sprinkles of water onto the floor, “but I’ve given up on people trying to pronounce it. Nora will do.” 

“And I’m Sergeant Ruescott Melshi. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Nora.” He pointed a finger at Cassian. “And this is Captain - ” 

“Just ‘Captain’ will do, ma’am,” corrected Cassian. He had not stood up to greet her. _No wonder these operatives are getting bloody captured left and right,_ he thought glumly. Code names should be used at all times; under no circumstances should one’s true name ever be revealed. Not even to other operatives. 

Melshi pulled out a chair for her. “So you got our messages, Nora?” 

“Yes, I did, but I couldn’t get a reply to you, I’m awfully sorry. I simply had to come straight here in person.” He voice was as feminine and gentle as the rest of her. She made walking and sitting down on a chair looked like a waltz. “Things have been terribly confusing lately and I simply…well, that’s why I’m here.” Her eyes darted over to Cassian. “Please. Won’t you listen?”

“Of course, Madeline.” Cassian made a point of glaring pointedly at Melshi when he used her code name. “That’s why we’re here, ma’am. To help you untangle the mess. But since we arrived, I’m afraid we’ve been able to get in touch with only a few operatives.”

“Oh, I’ve been moving around a lot, you see, Captain.” Her hands might be clasped primly in her lap, but her eyes flickered between the two men in a most restless manner. “I need to know who else from _Prosper_ you have managed to get in contact with.” 

“Paulette. Alice. Now you.”

“And Henri Dericourt?” 

Melshi made a sudden, jerky movement that caused Nora’s eyes to widen with panic. 

“The bastard won’t meet with us,” said the Scotsman in a hard voice. He pulled over another chair and sat down next to Cassian. He kept flicking his lighter on and off: _click, clack, click, clack,_ like a train running on the tracks. 

Nora’s lips quivered to form a shocked _O._ “The bastard?” 

“Do you know him?” asked Cassian. 

“Yes, of course, I do,” stammered Nora. “When we - Paulette, Alice and I - arrived in France, Henri Dericourt was the one who came to meet us. Why? Can’t he be trusted?” 

“We have yet to determine that,” Melshi said grimly. _Click, clack, click, clack._

Cassian asked, “What is it that you want to tell us, ma’am?”

“Well, I suppose I must start at the very beginning.” She pulled off her gloves, laid them on the table and smoothed them out finger by finger. “When we first arrived in France, we expected things to be very different. I didn’t expect everything to be so terribly…”

“Hectic?” supplied Cassian. 

“Muddled,” said Nora. Her hands returned, clasped, to her lap once more. “I couldn’t get in contact with many of our operatives on the ground. Not with Prosper or with Denise.”

Cassian nodded. He already knew all of this, just as he knew that Prosper was Francis Suttill’s codename and that Denise - real name Andree Borrel - was his right-hand woman. He said, “Yes, Suttill and Borrell have been silent since late June. But Gilbert Norman is still sending messages to London, isn’t that right?”

Nora’s eyes darted from his face to Melshi’s and back to his again. “We’ve heard that Norman is still around.” 

Melshi and Cassian shared a suspicious glance. “Around?” Cassian asked.

“Yes. Around,” repeated Nora seriously. “And there lies the rub, gentlemen. We hear that he’s _around,_ but we never see him. I still get messages from him, but I have never been able to get him to meet with me.” She paused a little and seemed to hold her breath for a moment. “Until now.” 

Cassian’s cigarette paused at his lips. “Until now?” Beside him Melshi shifted excitedly. The _click, clack-_ ing of the lighter ceased completely. “What do you mean by that, ma’am?”

“It means I just received word from him. He wants to arrange a meeting.” 

This time the look between Cassian and Melshi was more than a glance. He could read everything on the Scotsman’s face, from the excited twitch in his jaw to the way his lips curled together in anticipation. He knew what Melshi would say before he said it.

“Then we’ll meet,” said Melshi as he looked back at Nora.

“No, we won’t,” said Cassian. He began rubbing circles on his temple with his thumb, exhausted. “This is obviously a trap.” 

“Then we’ll know for sure that it’s a trap,” snapped Melshi. “That’s why we’re here. To get proof for the brass.” 

“What does your handler in London say, ma’am?” asked Cassian. 

“He says London trusts Norman and has instructed me to meet him,” replied Nora. “But I haven’t been sure. That’s why I’m here. Please. Can you help?”

“What do you want us to do?” 

“Advise me?”

Cassian scoffed. Pressed two fingers against his temple again. _That’s easier said than done, girl,_ he thought. 

“Of course we’ll help, ma’am,” Melshi said. He turned to give Cassian an accusing look. “There’s no way on earth we’re sending you in there alone. When did he say he want to meet?” 

“Two weeks from now. Friday night at seven.”

“Where?” 

Nora gave the name of a place in town Cassian did not know. Melshi, however, nodded. “A tricky spot. It’s an underground cafe, with only one way in and one way out.”

“A trap,” said Cassian. 

“There’s a pub across the road from it. The second floor is less crowded. I know a girl who works there. She can get us a table so we can have eyes on the cafe for the entire day.” 

“Melshi - ”

“Andor, do you have a better plan?”

“My plan is not to go.” 

“What would we achieve by not going?” 

“We stay alive.” _And I can keep my promise to Jyn._

“If we go and it’s a trap,” Melshi rushed on, “we’ll know for certain that Norman has been compromised. We will finally have proof to present to London, and no more agents have to die for this bloody network!”

“It’s too reckless.” 

“Yes, it’s too reckless, but it makes sense, it’s - ”

“Stupid.” 

“ _Effective.”_

Nora gave a tiny cough, alerting both men to her presence once more. “I hate to interrupt,” she said politely with an awkward smile, “but if someone should go, then it should be me.” 

“No one’s going, ma’am,” said Cassian. 

“If anyone’s going it should be _me_ ,” said Melshi. 

Cassian gave a heavy sigh. “Should we toss a coin, Melshi?” he asked sarcastically. His head had begun to ache. “Whoever loses the coin toss would be the one to go in and get arrested?” 

“There’s no need to toss a coin. _I’ll_ go in,” said Melshi. “You and Nora wait upstairs in the pub. If something horrid goes down, if Norman turns out to be a bunch of Gestapo officers, you can send confirmation to London.” 

“Then what about Dericourt?” 

“ _You_ can continue with Derciourt if something happens to me. But at least we’ll get Norman.” 

Cassian grabbed hold of his own lighter from the table. _Click, clack, click, clack._ His brain whirled as he tried to come up with an alternative plan or at least a logical argument. _Click, clack, click, clack._ The past month in France had been harder than he thought; they were no where near getting a meeting with Dericourt or unearthing double agents. This meeting with ‘Gilbert Norman’ was, as Melshi put it, an opportunity they could not pass up. Despite all the red flags, bad news is always better than uncertainty. _Click, clack, click, clack._ All he could do, however, was simply look at his friend and grimace. “I fucking hate this plan,” he said. 

Melshi shrugged. “The brass ordered Nora to meet him. We don’t really have much of a choice.” 

“It’s a bit like - ”

“Cutting off an arm to stop the infection from spreading.” Melshi inclined his head. “And I’m the arm.”

“Are all you Scotsmen this mental north of the border?”

Melshi grinned. “Only the ones from the Highlands.”

But Cassian could not find it within him to smile along. 

Nora gave a nod that was professional and painfully formal. “It’s settled then, gentlemen,” she said. “Let’s blow this whole thing apart.” 

They planned and talked for more than hour over cigarettes and cups of tea until the rain petered out. Eventually, when the clock struck eight, Nora stood up and excused herself. A governess staying out late would raise questions, she said. They let her go, with Melshi helping her get into her enormous coat. Thank you, she said, before the door swung shut. For your sacrifice. It sounded like such a hollow word, Cassian thought. _Sacrifice._

Once she was gone, Melshi went back to tuning the radio. He was looking for Radio Londres, the communication channel for the Resistance that was broadcasted from the BBC in London. Cassian, however, took out his pencil and two sheets of paper.

“Lysander?” asked Melshi curiously. “Wouldn’t you rather send a w/t message, Andor? It’s quicker. They would want to know about this meeting right away.” 

“Too risky,” replied Cassian. Sending a w/t or a wireless message meant cycling into the country side with his big cumbersome wireless set and dodging the Germans’ many signal-detecting vans. Sending a message via Lysander might be slower, but all it required was Melshi passing on his coded message to the hotel owner, who’d pass it on to another Resistance member, who’d then pass it on to the Lysander pilot during one of his scheduled trips from across the channel. 

“What if it doesn’t reach them in time?” Melshi asked. He was now fiddling with the radio antenna. 

“It will. We have two weeks,” Cassian said confidently. “We’ll save the w/t for right after the Norman meeting.”

“Are you sure?” 

“You had your way today with Madeline, Melshi,” Cassian sighed. “Let me have this.” 

The Scotsman gave a grim smile. “Fair enough,” he said, and turned back to his radio set. 

For the next two hours, Cassian worked while Melshi twiddled the dials looking for Radio Londres; when he could not locate the channel he listened to French songs. Cassian composed the entire report first like he always did before writing down the poem that would later be used to encrypt it. It was John Donne this time, a particular favourite of Kay’s. 

_Busy old fool, unruly Sun,_

_Why dost thou thus,_

_Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?_

_Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?_

The chosen words were: _fool, sun, dost, windows, curtains_ and _us._ The indicator group: CEGKNQ. _foolsundostwindowscurtainsus._ He numbered every letter carefully, then brought out his report again and began encrypting the message. He checked it four times after he was done. It was important to get everything just right; one mistake could prove costly in the long run. Once he was satisfied, he rolled up the little piece of paper, put it in an empty film tube and set it aside for Melshi to deliver tomorrow.The spare scraps of parchment he then burned in the ashtray using his lighter. 

_Norman has made contact with Madeline asking for a meeting that will take place two Fridays from now. As ordered by London, she has agreed to it, but Valle will attend in her place. Madeline and I will keep an eye on the situation from the opposite building. That night I will send confirmation on Norman’s status via w/t. Please monitor._

_Fulcrum._

 

* * *

 

It rained again on Thursday, the day before the meeting. The sky opened up around noon, with the rain starting off as a storm until it turned into a light drizzle as dusk approached. He had never hated the rain; some of the most important events in his life had happened in the rain. But now he found himself watching it with unfamiliar trepidation, willing it to stop before tomorrow night. Sending a successful message via w/t hinged on speed and precision; rain would make finding a signal even harder. 

At around five in the evening, Melshi returned with a loaf of bread, a small block of cheese, a vine of grapes and cold ham. The Scotsman shrugged out of his rain-soaked coat with a grimace. 

“This bloody weather,” he said. “What shall we do if it is still raining tomorrow?” 

“We pray,” Cassian answered, sardonically and not quite sardonically.

Melshi gave a chuckle. “I haven’t prayed in years, Andor.”

“Maybe it’s past time you started again.”

“Not in a million years.” The Scotsman sighed heavily. “Good God, man, aren’t we fools or what?”

Cassian’s reply was merely a grunt and a flick of his newspaper. 

After dinner Melshi went to bed earlier than usual. The Scotsman always had the knack of falling asleep wherever and whenever and tonight was no different. Cassian could not detect anything different in his partner’s demeanour as he threw himself down on his bed, closed his eyes and pulled his duvet right up to his chin. _Shouldn’t one be able to sleep so easily, knowing they might get arrested or die tomorrow?_ he wondered. He himself never could. 

Once Melshi had drifted off to sleep and twilight had turned into night, he lit a candle and began his work. It was Keats today, and the poem chosen was so very Kay that it brought a wan smile to his face. 

_Happy is England! I could be content_

_To see no other verdure than its own;_

_To feel no other breezes than are blown_

_Through its tall woods with high romances blent._

_England. Content. Verdure. Breezes. Blown. CGLTW. englandcontentverdurebreezesblown._

He wrote coded messages for every scenario he could think of: for Melshi getting arrested, for Melshi getting killed, for Gilbert Norman still being alive, for Gilbert Norman being a double-agent.

Once the messages have been written out and encrypted using the poem, he rolled them up, marked them each with a number, and sat for a long while committing them to memory. When the time came to send a w/t message, everything must be done quickly, preferably under twenty minutes, or else he could get picked up by a Gestapo signal-detecting van. It would be disastrous if he were to pick the wrong message to send, so it was always better to be safe than sorry.

The candle flickered out. He lit another one. And struck up a cigarette. 

It was nearly eleven by the time he finished memorising, and he tucked the messages away in a secret pocket in the inner linings of his jacket. He had sewn the pocket himself with help from Kay, who was surprisingly skilful at needlework. The memory made him pause a little in his thoughts as he smoked. He wondered what his friends were doing right at this very moment. He did not know what time it was in Egypt, so he had no idea if Dameron would still be up. But he could picture Kay hunched over a wireless set, arguing with another operative in the corridors of Baker Street, or nodding off in a boring report meeting with a cup of tea in hand. And as for Jyn…she would be… she would be… No, he would rather not think of Jyn. 

_Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment_

_For skies Italian, and an inward groan_

_To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,_

_And half forget what world or worldling meant._

He must have dozed off, for when he heard the flick of a lighter, he nearly jumped out of his skin. A new candle was burning on the table before him and his cigarette had died out. Melshi, now occupying the seat opposite of him, arched a curious eyebrow. _Click, clack,_ went the lighter in his hand. 

“There’s a bed just behind you, Andor,” said Melshi. The Scotsman used his newly lit cigarette to point to Cassian’s uncreased bed. “Have you made a habit of sleeping in chairs?” 

Rubbing his eyes, he pulled himself up straighter in his seat. “Can’t sleep, Melshi?”

Melshi shrugged. “I don’t know how you do it, Andor. It’s bloody infuriating.” 

“Well, it’s understandable. Considering.” _Maybe the bastard is normal after all,_ Cassian thought. _But then who am to judge?_

“I dozed off once or twice,” said Melshi. “But every time…these fucking dreams…I keep seeing…” He shook his head as if to chase away the images. “Never mind, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Are you ready?”

Melshi gave an ironic smile which looked a little twisted in the candlelight. “As ready you can be, I suppose.” 

He felt obliged to ask: “Is there someone at home you want me to give something to? A letter? A message?”

Melshi shook his head. “My mother died when I was ten. That’s why we left France for Scotland. And my old man passed away last year. I have no other family.” For a fraction of a second, he looked rather sad. “How about you, Andor?” 

“No one,” he lied. It was always easier to lie. 

Melshi let out a sharp laugh. “What a perfect pair we make for this mission.” He had already finished his cigarette and quickly lit another one. When he spoke again, his voice was strangely measured and calm. “There was this girl, though,” he said. “Back when my old man and I used to work up in the Highlands. I used to lead her horse in the yard.”

“Lead her horse?” 

“We worked for a bunch of toffs. The family had a castle and everything. Old Scottish nobility.” Melshi shrugged as though it could happen to anyone. He rubbed his forehead with the side of his thumb. Pained. Suddenly agitated. “She had red hair. Could sing like an angel. When I was twelve, I thought her father would take pity on me and let me marry her. Fucking hell, I was such a fool.”

Cassian was tempted to smile. “You’re still a fool, Melshi. Tomorrow is proof.” 

“Ah. Tomorrow.” Melshi sneered. “We have no other choice when it comes to tomorrow.” 

_Don’t we?_ That was the question Cassian kept asking himself for the last two weeks ever since they met with Nora. _Don’t we have another choice?_ Had the brass not trusted Gilbert Norman… had London not insisted on the meeting… had Melshi not been so stubborn… had he, Cassian, been smarter… 

But all of this was just wishful thinking, a futile attempt to apply colours to a black and white painting. The plan was already made and now they must simply carry it out.

“This girl,” said Cassian quietly, “do you want me find her for you…if something goes wrong?”

Melshi shook his head. _Click, clack. Click, clack._ “No, that’s not necessary, she wouldn’t remember me. Like I said. I was a bloody fool.” Another one of his perfect soldier-smiles. “See what a lack of sleep does to me, Andor? It makes me soft.” 

Cassian did not know what to say, so he repeated his earlier sentiment: “Well, that’s understandable. Considering.”

The Scotsman only gave a half-broken smile that somehow made his handsome face look tired. 

_Yet do I often warmly burn to see_

_Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,_

_And float with them about the summer waters._

 

* * *

 

It did not rain on Friday morning. 

Cassian arrived at the pub at ten o’clock, nine hours before the meeting. True to his word, Melshi had contacted the waitress he knew and there was a table reserved for them upstairs. From there he had a good view of the cafe across the road; a charming little place, underground, with only one door for customers and staff to walk in and out. He remembered what he had told Melshi: a trap. 

He ordered tea, then changed his mind and ordered coffee and a croissant. He asked the girl to bring him a newspaper. He pretended to read it as he kept his eyes on the street below. 

Nothing was out of the ordinary this morning as far as he could tell. At around ten-thirty, a waitress stepped outside the cafe for a smoke. Fifteen minutes later she went back in, accompanied by two new customers: a couple in their forties. Just a little after eleven that couple exited the shop. A family with three children went down instead. Noon saw more customers leaving and more new customers arriving; a younger crowd, students and artists and the like. The waitress came out for another smoke at two, this time accompanied by a chef. That was when Nora arrived. Wrapped in her huge coat and scarf that made her look even tinier, she greeted him with a peck on the cheek. 

“Anything suspicious, Captain?” 

“Not a thing.” He frowned. “Which makes me even more nervous.” 

She sat down, ordered tea in perfect French, and turned to him as she removed her coat and scarf. Her voice dropped to a frightened whisper: “Should we _really_ be nervous? I don’t think I can bear it.”

 _Yes,_ he wanted to reply. But one look at her large round eyes made him say, “Well, we shall see, ma’am.”

They went over the plan again. Just for safety reasons, he told her. If Gilbert Norman turned out to be Gilbert Norman, he said, Melshi would leave the cafe after the meeting and give them a nod and a quick salute. But if things go awry, they must leave the pub immediately; not under any circumstances must they linger around to discover Melshi’s fate. He would grab his bicycle that Melshi’s female acquaintance had hidden in the pub’s cellar, cycle to the nearest field and send a w/t message to London. Only then would he proceed to another village and contact the Resistance members there. As for Nora, she would make straight for a different safe house. 

“Don’t go to Henri Dericourt,” he told her. “Whatever you do, don’t go to Dericourt. We still don’t know if he’s trust-worthy.” 

“I won’t go to Dericourt,” she promised him. “I know a sister of one of our French contacts. She can hide me until things blow over.” 

“Good. And don’t send any messages to your handler until you’re absolutely sure you’re not being tracked. Then find a plane and go back to England.”

Her gaze slipped from his face down to her cup of tea. “I don’t think I can.” 

He studied her with eyes hard as steel. “You don’t think you can or you don’t want to?”

“Oh, I want to. Desperately.” She covered her trembling lips with a napkin. “I want nothing more in the world than to see my little brothers and my little sister again…but most of all I want to see my mother. Everything has been incredibly hard on her ever since my father passed away and I didn’t want to leave her all alone. She…she thinks I’m in Africa. you know. I had to tell her I was going to Africa.” She blinked once, twice, and the tears were gone. “I want more than anything to go home to her.”

“Then go.” 

“I can’t.” She shook her head stubbornly in a way that reminded him painfully of Jyn. “Not until we’re done, absolutely _done,_ here.”

“Madeline - ” 

“It’s Nora.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “I’m grateful for your help with this Gilbert Norman business, Captain, but please do not tell me how to do my job.”

He knew when he was defeated and gave a weary sigh. “Alright, ma’am. Whatever you wish.” 

At five-thirty, a figure appeared at the end of the street; head-bowed, eyes lowered under a black cap, coat pulled tight around a thin frame. He recognised the man immediately. Melshi. He and Nora watched intently as the Scotsman strode down the road, stopped opposite of their pub to look around briefly, and then disappeared into the cafe downstairs. 

Nora peered up at him solemnly from over her steaming cup of tea. “So it begins.” 

He nodded grimly in response. “And so it does.” 

It is often strange how time passes when you are waiting for something. Sometimes it can tick by so slowly as if it were a lazy stream, while other times it can rush ahead with unbelievable speed. As Cassian Andor sat there, in a pub in France, watching a little cafe on the other side of the road, he thought that time shouldn’t be allowed to move at all. The more it moves, he reasoned, the more they all have to _get_ somewhere, and what a dreadful thing it is when you don’t know what awaits you when you get there. 

Five-thirty became six. Then six became six-thirty. The cafe waitress he saw in the morning left for home. Another waitress arrived. The afternoon crowd came up and the evening crowd went down. Then six-thirty became seven. And seven became seven-fifteen. And seven-fifteen became seven-thirty. Still nothing happened.

“Perhaps he’s arrived already,” said Nora cautiously. “Gilbert Norman. Perhaps he’s one of the men we saw enter the cafe.”

“Do you think any of the men we saw earlier could have passed for Norman?” Cassian scoffed. “They’re either too old or too young or too…”

“French?” Nora smiled. She really did have a lovely smile, even though it was a shy one, drawn and sculptured like an old-time painting. “He’s _supposed_ to look French, Captain.” 

“I was going to say ‘too civilian’.”

“Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t been captured yet,” said Nora. He could tell she was desperate to stay positive. “Perhaps that’s why he’s not being tortured in a prison somewhere. Or shot dead in a dark alley. Oh, how it wish we knew who - ”

And that was when he saw it: the black van speeding down the street. He held up a hand to silence Nora and both of them could only watch on helplessly as the van stopped in front of the cafe and three men in the uniforms of the Gestapo leapt out. All it took, Cassian reflected with despair, was a few short seconds. 

“I knew it,” he muttered through gritted teeth. _Melshi, you damn fool. You damn, dead fool._

“Captain - ”

“We go. Now! Now!” 

They abandoned their drinks, their food, their newspapers, and took the stairs down three at a time. To his ears the thundering of their footsteps sounded more like the _click, clack, click, clack-ing_ of Melshi’s stupid lighter. The Gestapo had not yet exited the cafe with their prisoner when Cassian located his bike in the pub’s cellar. The wireless set was strapped inside its basket, covered and disguised to look like a simple wooden crate. It really was a vain attempt; a German soldier would have no problem recognising it for what it was the moment he clasped eyes on it. _Click, clack, click, clack,_ went his breathing as he tried to calm it. _Melshi, you damn fool. You damn, dead fool._

They took the bike and rushed out onto the empty back street together. Droplets of rain suddenly greeted them, cold against their cheeks, wet against their eyelashes. He let out a curse in Spanish. _Just our fucking luck._

Nora looked up at the sky, frowning. “Captain - ”

“I know. It has started to rain. I’ll try my best to find the signal.” 

“Captain, I can help - ”

“No. This is where we must part, I’m afraid. You take care of yourself, ma’am.” 

“What about Melshi, Captain?”

“There’s nothing we can do.”

“But - ”

“We follow the plan.” 

He was about to get on his bike when Nora turned abruptly to grab him by the collar, pushed herself up on her tip-toes and pressed her lips to his. Brief. Hurried. Almost chaste. Not even like a real kiss. And then it was over. 

He stood blinking stupidly down at her. “What was that for?”

“For luck, Captain,” said Nora. She seemed to have shrunk back into herself. That shy hazy smile returned. “And for liberty.” 

And with a flutter of her coat, she was gone. 

 

* * *

 

He cycled down a small country lane as the rain continued to fall. Unlike yesterday, it started softly, with the raindrops gentle and light upon his skin, but then everything changed rather quickly. Lightning flashed ahead of him, the rain began weighing down his clothes, the mud caking up the wheels of his bike. The field was near, it was _supposed_ to be near, yet it felt like it were half-way around the world. In England with Jyn, perhaps. Or in Cairo with Kes Dameron. In Mexico with his dead family. _Click, clack, click, clack,_ sang the chains of his bicycle in chorus with the rain. 

The gate was left wide open when he got there. He could not bike up the hill in this weather, so he had no choice but to carry the bike on his shoulder along with the wireless set. He trudged through the soggy grass, with mud up to his ankles, and thought of how Kay would have laughed if he could see him now. _Look at your stupid plan, Cassian. You and Melshi. So desperate to be heroes. So desperate to be right. Bloody fools._ He heard himself chuckling through the lashing of the rain. What was the poem he was supposed to use next, if he were to survive this transmission? Shakespeare? Donne? Another Keats? Or was it Milton? For some reason the memory eluded him. 

Fortunately, the wind had softened by the time he reached the top of the hill, but he was still shivering with cold when he sat up the wireless set and began tuning for a signal. He consulted his wrist-watch. There it was again: time. Ticking and moving by so fast, everything was slipping through his fingers like sand. 

Five minutes. Then ten. Then fifteen.

_Kay, where the fucking hell are you?_

Twenty. Then twenty five. 

He found the signal at thirty. Too late. Too bloody late. But he could not turn back now. He took out the coded message from his secret pocket and sent it, every dot and dash awkward and rushed. _I must be perfect,_ he thought numbly as his fingers worked. _I must be. I must be._ Or everything - Nora’s hard work, Melshi’s sacrifice, Kay’s anger, his own stubbornness - would have been for nothing. _Click, clack. Click, clack._

After the message had been sent, he heard a voice shouting from far away, cutting shrilly through the rain. Somewhere from the bottom of the hill, perhaps. By the gate. With a yank, he disconnected the signal and then wrapped the wireless set with the cloth that was now heavy with water. The bike he must leave behind. Maybe he could lose himself in the forest up ahead and hide there until whoever it was had passed. He began to run. 

Light flickered in the corner of his right eye. Torchlight. Someone was coming up the hill behind him. It sped up his footsteps. Sent him nearly sprawling down the slope. _Keep going,_ he repeated the old mantra to himself. He was nearly at the forest. _Keep going. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look -_

The pain was sharp. Searing. It knocked him down and shattered him as if he were made of glass. _God, it hurts,_ was the only thought he had when his back smashed against the ground. Something blurred his vision. Mud. Rain. Maybe lightning. He shook his head, trying to clear his eyes, make himself _see_. His hands flailed about for something to hold on to - his wireless set, a root, a rock, anything - but found only water. 

_I’ve been shot,_ he thought. _Jyn, I’ve been shot._

He had been shot before; this was nothing new. But, God, this time he found he could not move. He did not even know _where_ he had been shot; his side? his arm? his leg? He could only lie there, corpse-like, staring up at the sky as his sight returned, and let the rain shoot down into his eyeballs like bullets. 

_There!_ He thought he caught sight of the hanging moon. _And there!_ Two faded stars, twinkling, disappearing. Then a shape blocked his view entirely, and all he could see was darkness.

“Damn you,” he muttered, and thought he tasted blood mixed in with the dirt and the mud.

The shape moved. The light shifted. And he saw a pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth, cheekbones. A uniform. The German crouched down and shone a torch in his face. 

“Damn you,” Cassian said again, coughing. 

The German scowled, moved a little to the right. The moon peaked out from behind his shoulder. Then he raised his voice and shouted in his native tongue, “Bring the car up! We found him! We found him!” 

And that was when his memory returned: Tennyson. It was supposed to be Tennyson next. 

_Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee_

_That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief_

_Doth hold the other half in sovranty…_

But for the life of him he could not remember the rest.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching 1944 (or as I call it, the end game)! I can’t believe we’ve gotten this far! Thank you so much to everyone who’s still reading and reviewing. Again, chapter title belongs to Shakespeare. As for the history: 
> 
> \- Melshi is inspired by a real life agent named Jack Agazarian. In 1942, Agazarian was in France as part of the Prosper network and became suspicious of Henri Dericourt, another agent in the network. When Agazarian returned to England in June, 1943, he expressed his suspicions to Maurice Buckmaster, the head of the SOE, and Nicholas Bodington, his deputy. However, both Buckmaster and Bodington were unconvinced.
> 
> \- In June and July, 1943, new agents who were sent to France began to lose contact with many prominent members of Prosper, including Francis Suttill and Andree Borrel. (No one knew that Suttill and Borrell were already arrested in June.) However, messages from an agent called Gilbert Norman were still being sent to the SOE in London. In late July, Agazarian finally convinced his superiors to send him back to France to investigate the matter. Bodington accompanied him. This is, of course, the inspiration for Melshi and Cassian’s return to France. 
> 
> \- Agazarian and Bodington departed for France on 22 July 1943. Bodington, working through headquarters, arranged a meeting with Gilbert Norman. Agazarian was convinced it was a trap, but Bodington claimed they tossed a coin to decide who should visit the address. (Cassian’s remark about a coin toss is a nod to this.) Agazarian lost the toss and he was immediately arrested when he arrived at the meeting place. In turns out that the real Gilbert Norman had already been arrested along with Suttill and Borrel. Agazarian was tortured by the Gestapo for six months before he was sent to Flossenburg concentration camp. There he was kept in solitary confinement and executed on March 29, 1945.
> 
> \- Even now, Henri Dericourt’s loyalty is still being debated. The most likely answer is that he was not a double agent but a _triple_ agent employed by the MI6 and that his work for the SOE had been a cover to get him close to the Germans.
> 
> \- Noor Inayat Khan (or Nora)’s father came from a noble Indian Muslim family while her mother was an American. The family lived in the Soviet Union, France and England before the war broke out. Nora joined the Women's Auxiliary Air Force in 1940 and was recruited into the SOE in February 1943 and began training as a w/t operator. I tried to write Nora based on the characteristics we know she had: “childlike”, her “lack of ruse”, she was "very feminine in character, capable of strong attachments, kind hearted, emotional, imaginative”. But she was also “terrified” and “overwhelmed” when put through mock-interrogations and that she “tends to give far too much information”. She was indeed physically tiny and she did find saying goodbye to her widowed mother the most painful thing she had to do. Upon the advice of Vera Atkins, she really did tell her mother that she was going abroad, but to Africa. Her codename was really Madeline and her cover identity Jeanne-Marie Regnier. 
> 
> \- Nora arrived in France on 16/17 June 1943 along side Diana Rowden (code named Paulette) and Cecily Lefort (Alice). After three months and a half, she was arrested in October. She was either betrayed by Henri Dericourt or Renee Garry, a sister of another agent. (I eluded that she was going to see this ‘sister’ during her convo with Cassian.) She did not give anything away during her interrogation, but the Gestapo discovered a book in her possession where she had recorded the messages she had been sending and receiving. They were able to break her code, send false information to London and capture three more secret agents. Nora was then taken to Dachau concentration camp. Along with three other female agents, she was executed on 13 September 1944. She was thirty years old. Her last word to Cassian is indeed the last word she uttered in life: “liberty”. 
> 
> \- W/t transmission: if agents stayed on the air transmitting for more than 20 minutes, their signals were likely to be picked up by enemy detection vans. The transmitter was also bulky and hard to conceal. In 1943, an operator's life expectancy was six weeks. The “poem codes” method was indeed used by SOE agents and [you can check it out in detail here.](https://darthnull.org/fun/2016/03/27/poem-codes/) Poems used in this chapter are _The Sun Rising_ by John Donne, _Happy Is England_ by John Keats and _Love and Sorrow_ by Alfred Lord Tennyson. 
> 
> —
> 
> Please share with me your thoughts, your ramblings etc. [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)  
> —
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “The Weight Of This Sad Time” - in which we check in on Shara in good ol’ Texas_


	10. The Weight of This Sad Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we check in on Shara in good ol’ Texas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been going through quite a stressful time at work, so this chapter has turned out pretty awful, I’m not going to lie. But hopefully it’s not too bad? Hopefully you won’t abandon this story because of it? Especially now that we’re approaching the end game? Fingers crossed! On a more positive note, we're reaching 1944 and the events foreshadowed in the beginning of the first chapter. I can see the finish line! Ahhhh! 
> 
> **An important note:** Some events in this chapter are inspired by real life events (see end notes) and a few real life people do make appearances or are mentioned. However, I would like to stress that this story is fanfiction; it is meant purely to entertain and I did take certain liberties with the history because of Plot. I would never deign to think that my trashy work could, in any way, do justice to the brave men and women who really lived through this time period.
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than the new season of _Peaky Blinders_. So please leave one if you can!

**_Previously:_ ** _Kes Dameron has asked Shara to marry him, but she has said no. So Kes is currently working in Cairo for the British government, while Shara has returned to America to become a plot for the WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots) - a civilian women pilots' organisation whose main job is to ferry planes and tow targets for the American army._

* * *

  

_Time is short and it doesn’t return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, loss, loss, unless you devote your heart to its opposition._

**Tennessee Williams**

 

* * *

 

**Biggs Army Air Field**

**El Paso, Texas**

**1944**

 

Before we proceed, first a word about Shara Bey: 

Shara’s mother gave birth to her when she was seventeen. She took her first steps when she was only eight months old; her _abuela_ said it was because she was in a hurry to get somewhere, even though she had no clue where that may be. When she was six years old she flew in an airplane for the first time - a flight from New York to San Francisco. She fell in love with a boy who lived next door when she was eight, had her first kiss at fifteen, lost her virginity at sixteen and had her heart broken at seventeen. And after she turned eighteen, she packed her bags and left for England, determined to fulfill her dream of becoming a pilot like her hero, Amelia Earhart. 

Shara Bey had loved only a few things in her short young life: her mother, her grandmother, the father she never knew, a good Carole Lombard picture, the Grand Canyon on a sunny day, vanilla ice cream, her small circle of friends, a boy who left. She guarded her heart better than most; the more you love someone the weaker you are; why allow yourself to need someone who does not need you just as much? She was great at giving advice, but terrible at receiving it. She could be patient with others, but incredibly short-tempered with herself. She was formed but not fully-formed; perpetually hovering on the cusp of understanding herself; incredibly dead-set on self-preservation.

And so far, Shara Bey had not yet seen a need to change, although she knew that she must someday. She, like most young people, also had the wrong impression of the concept. She did not yet understand that change is a choice rather than a natural occurrence; you cannot sit on the porch in a rocking chair and expect it to _happen_ to you like the seasons. She could not yet comprehend that there is a time limit to the act. That something can happen too late. That you can step out on the road one day and turn your head to the side, and have your entire world end in the blink of an eye. 

She would, however, learn this lesson in 1944, the year the Allies stormed the beaches in Normandy. And it all started, like most important things in one’s life, over a meal.

Hazel Ying Lee, Shara’s fellow WASP pilot, had sneaked into the airfield’s kitchen and whipped the said meal up in the span of an hour: duck roasted in garlic and spices until the skin was so crispy it crunched when they bit into it, Chinese broccoli stir-fried in oyster sauce and sprinkled with tiny mushrooms, white and fluffy bowls of rice, _xiaolongbao_ dumplings that melted in their mouths. 

Hazel was using her chopsticks to jab and count the dumplings. “One, two, three, four…” - they sat cross-legged on the floor of their living quarters: a room with four metal army cots, no windows, a dresser, a mirror and five rods from which they hung their clothes - “…five, six, seven, eight. That’s perfect! We get two dumplings each. Understood?” 

“Oh, it’s too late in the day for me to eat!” Jane gave a yelp from her bed, where she sat brushing her hair. She was a girl from a good sort of family, who would never dream of doing anything untoward, with eating after dinner time being one of them. 

“It’s only eight, Jane,” said Shara. She used her chopsticks to claim one of the dumplings. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Jane blushed. “I can’t possibly - ”

Hazel interrupted her. “Nancy?” 

Nancy, a girl who was definitely _not_ from a good sort of family, let out a groan. “No, thank you, I don’t have the energy to eat _anything_ ,” she said. Her answer, however, was slightly muffled by a pillow as she was lying face-down on her bed, exhausted from being ‘stuck out’ on ferrying jobs for three days. Nancy liked to boast that she was half an inch too short for the WASP and had to stand on her tiptoes to pass her medical. In a just world, Nancy liked to claim, she would _not_ have been accepted into the program at all; her spot would have been given to the much more experience pilot who applied after her, who was only disqualified because of the colour of her skin.

“So that leaves more for me and Shara, then,” said Hazel, gesturing toward Shara with her chopsticks. “ _Four_ dumplings for the two of us. Goody!”

Shara shrugged. “Sounds fair.” 

“More than fair.” 

Nancy let out another muffled groan. “ _Idiots!_ ” 

Smiling, Hazel winked at Shara. Bold, a vastly experienced Pilot, with a wicked sense of humour, Hazel was among the few WASPs who flew _Pursuit -_ high powered fighter planes like the P-63 Kingcobra and the P-51 Mustang. To top it all off, she was also a tremendous cook, a fact which aggravated Shara; how could one person be so good at _everything?_

“Now you have to tell me what I’ve been _dying_ to know,” remarked Hazel. She plopped one of the dumplings into her mouth.

“What have you been dying to know?” asked Shara.

“What the senator is like, of course!”

Shara gasped. “You’re not supposed to know about that!”

“Well…” Hazel shrugged. Reached for another piece of duck. “We all know you flew her to Mexico City and back yesterday. Everyone’s talking about it on the base.” 

“Yes, but - ”

“Come on. Tell me what she’s like! They say she’s - ”

“The youngest female senator in history,” said Shara, sighing, unable to help herself. 

“Precisely.” Hazel grinned. “So…what is she like?”

“She’s…tiny.”

“Tiny?”

“Very small.”

“I know what tiny means.” Hazel rolled her eyes. “People say she’s pretty tough.”

“We didn’t talk much during the flight, but she _has_ to be tough, hasn’t she?” Shara’s chopsticks paused at the edge of her plate as she considered the question. “Oh, God, they’re all incredibly tough, these tiny women. Tough and intimidating. Don’t you find that incredibly annoying?”

Hazel gave her a knowing look. “I’m guessing you still haven’t heard from your English pal then?”

“Jyn?” Shara scoffed derisively. “Other than that horrible Christmas card she sent me? Yes, you’re right, I haven’t heard anything. I thought that now after Normandy, she’d be more…I don’t know…relaxed? With the war coming to an end? I thought she’d be more inclined to write? How stupid of me.” 

“Well, from what I’ve heard from my brother, the war is _not_ quite coming to an end just yet.” Hazel’s brother was in the U.S. Tank Corps and, as far as she knew, he was now somewhere in France. “Maybe she’s still having a hard time.”

“That’s just it.” Shara frowned accusingly at the food. “She’s _always_ having a hard time, she just doesn’t _tell_ me about it.” She shook her head and reached for another dumpling. “For heaven’s sake, I wish it could all be less stressful somehow!” 

“Honey, it’s war. It’s always going to be stressful.”

“I know…I just…” She shook her head again. “Don’t mind me, I’m in a mood, that’s all. Haven’t had enough sleep. Can you tell me one of your stories? Take my mind off it?” 

“Which one do you want?” 

“The one about your escape from China to Hong Kong?”

Hazel made a disgusted face. “Why would you want to hear _that?”_

“I don’t know.” Shara shrugged. “It sounds heroic.”

“You’re stupid. And I want to tell the one about the farmer and his pitchfork.”

“But you’re _always_ telling that one!” 

Nancy let out a _hmmm_ in agreement. 

Hazel tutted, eyeing them all viciously. “Well, _I_ happen to think that it’s a fun story,” she said with dignity. “Educational, hilarious, thrilling - ”

“Boring,” said Shara.

“How dare you!” 

“I’m just saying what everyone is thinking! We all know that - ”

Suddenly, the door swung open with a _bang!_ The youngest WASP pilot in El Paso stood there, trying to catch her breath.

Jane gave a frightened squeak. “Dee! What on earth - ”

“Oh, do come quick!” the girl Dee cried. Her eyes were gleaming, her blonde curls bobbing joyfully. “Something amazing has happened!”

Hazel perked up. “Oh, has Pervert Bob found out that the Chinese letters I drew on the tail of his plane doesn’t really say, ‘Hero’?” 

Shara gaped at her friend. “You drew on Pervert Bob’s plane tail?” 

“Of course.” Hazel grinned with unabashed smugness. “He wanted me to write ‘hero’ in Chinese, but I wrote ‘Fat Ass’.” 

“Does he know that?” 

“I don’t know.” Hazel turned to Dee. “Does he?” 

The girl looked lost for a moment, but then she shook her head frustratingly. “Oh, I don’t know anything about Pervert Bob, Miss Lee, but…” - Dee’s smile stretched across her face once more - “…there’s been an emergency landing!” 

Shara let out an exasperated sigh. “Dee, honey, this is not Sweetwater. An emergency landing here is a _real_ emergency landing. Not a young male pilot who’s desperate to catch sight of a few skirts.” 

During their training at Sweetwater, one young man ‘crashed lane’ with his engine missing just so he could have an excuse to visit their all-female training base and gawk at the rare phenomenon that was female pilots. Their supervisor, Jacqueline Cochran, had been livid at the intrusion, and gave the young man such a talking-to that he nearly bursted into tears.

“Oh, Miss Bey, this _is_ a real emergency landing!” Dee clasped her hands to her breasts. “But, oh gosh, Miss Bey, you _must_ see the pilot!” 

“For heaven’s sake, Dee,” said Hazel, “control yourself! How can the men take us seriously if we’re fawning over them every other minute?”

“Oh, but, _please!_ ” the girl squealed. She was skipping on the spot, breathless. “You won’t be sorry. Please, please, please, _please!_ ” 

Shara looked at Hazel, who shrugged carelessly. She sighed and put down her chopsticks. “Fine. We’ll go out and see. But if he looks like Pervert Bob, I swear to God, Dee, I’ll drown you in the Rio Grande myself.” 

The man, fortunately (and unfortunately for Shara), looked _nothing_ like Pervert Bob. 

When the women reached the broken plane, he was walking around yelling at the engineers and army pilots, his hands flailing around angrily and his strides so assured, it looked like he owned the place. A column of smoke streamed from the front of the plane; sparks flew from the bottom of it, sizzling in the Texan summer. 

Dee’s entire face glowed as she looked on. “Isn’t he _dashing?_ ” 

Shara could only stand there, staring. _It cannot be. It cannot be._ But before she could react, a furry figure had barged into her, knocking her on her back with its paws to her chest, barking joyfully. 

She heard Hazel yelling: “What in heaven’s name is going on?”

Then another voice. That voice she dreaded: “CHEWIE! To me, boy! To me!” 

The dog gave her face a few more licks before getting off of her and letting her scramble to her feet. 

“Hey, boy,” she muttered. She made a point of not looking up at its owner. She crouched down, scratched the huge, furry creature behind its ear. “You’ve grown quite a bit since I last saw you, buddy.”

“Chewie, what the hell did I just say? I called for you, didn’t I, you big, hairy - ” That was when he spotted her. And his strides halted. “Oh.” 

Shara drew in a long breath and stood up. _God, don’t let me faint,_ she thought. _Don’t let me faint._

“Hi, Han.”

He paused; hesitated; nearly flinched. Then a grin stretched across his face from ear to ear. “Why, I’ll be damned. It’s Shara Bey.”

People were openly staring. But then a sudden madness took hold of her and it did not matter one bit if the entire world were watching. She marched over until she stood only inches away from him and - _crack! -_ slap him right across the face in one sweeping, earth-shattering motion. 

She heard Dee gasp and Hazel let out a curse. A few men wolf-whistled. But all Han Solo did was rub his jaw casually like she had given him a perfectly normal hand shake. 

“Gee, sweetheart,” he drawled. Smiled, like he always did smile. “You haven’t changed one bit.” 

 

* * *

 

They sat on the steps of the old abandoned shack in the corner of the airfield. The crowd had dispersed a while ago. The plane was before them, still emitting smoke from its engines. Chewie ran around chasing his own tail. The scene looked like it could have happened years ago. In another life. Another time.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Shara said quietly. Her heart still felt as if it were beating a hundred miles per minute.

Han waved a hand. “Nah, it’s alright. I deserved it.” He tapped his cigarette with his middle finger; the habit so familiar, she did not know how she could have forgotten it. “Sucks for everyone, doesn’t it? My being here?”

“Some of the girls wouldn’t agree.” 

That wry grin again. “Yeah, well, it can’t be helped.” 

“So why don’t you get a place in town then? There’s no need for you to stay here on the base while you find the parts you need to fix your plane.”

“Nah, I’d rather stay here if they’ll have me. I hate to leave her behind.”

“Her?” She lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. “The plane?”

“The Falcon’s not _just_ a plane, Bey.”

“The Falcon? You _named_ it? Where’d you get it from? Don’t tell me you stole it!”

Han’s eyes widened as he feigned shock. “Me? Steal? Never! I won her fair and square!” 

“You _won_ her?”

“Yeah, in a card game.” It was so absurd, yet so like him, she had to laugh. He shrugged, and added, “And I prefer to keep an eye on her at all times.”

“Whatever for?”

He cocked his head to the side and smiled; mischievous; pleased with himself. “Let’s just say I have a few things on board I don’t want your army brats to find.” 

“Han, _no!_ ” 

“A man’s gotta make a living, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Han, but _smuggling_?”

“There’s a war on, what’d you think, Bey? You can’t expect a guy like me to do _nothing_ when I have the fastest plane in the continent.”

“Yes, but - but not smuggling!”

“Save your sermons for later, will ya, sweetheart? You’re giving me a headache.” 

She scoffed and looked away from him. “My God, you haven’t changed at all.” 

His middle finger tapped on his cigarette as he replied, “That I haven’t.”

_But he_ has _changed,_ a voice whispered to her. _Oh, how he has._

For one thing he had grown taller; when he stood up, he towered over her even more than before, all long beautiful limbs that moved and gestured and touched so carelessly as if he did not know nor care that those touches could set fire to things. His chest had broadened along with his confidence. His jaw had become more chiselled, his cheekbones more pronounced. The straight nose. The twinkling eyes. The smirk of his mouth. How a man should look. A man for all occasions and none. Irresistible.

He spoke in the casual tone she remembered from childhood: “I know you slapped me pretty hard, Bey, but you’re not _really_ mad at me, are you?”

She stared at the dry earth beneath her feet. There was a blade of grass that had shot through the cracks. She bent down, and let it run along her finger. 

“No,” she said softly. “I’m not mad at you at all.”

 

* * *

 

“Tell me a story,” she whispered. 

Hazel eyes shone back at her in the darkness of their room. “Again?”

“Yes. Something exciting.” 

“I’m _not_ telling you the Hong Kong story.” 

“Oh, Hazel, _please._ ” 

“No,” Hazel hissed. “I told you, I’m _not_ telling it.” 

She let out a scoff. “Fine. Tell the story about the farmer then.”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

“I want to hear _something._ Anything.”

“Alright.” Hazel shifted on her bed and leaned in closer so her voice would not disturb the others. “I was flying over a wheat field in - ”

“Kansas.”

“What did I tell you about interrupting?”

Shara rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Hazel. Please continue.”

“Thank you. I was flying over a wheat field in Kansas when my engines gave this _awful_ shudder. I knew from experience that I was in trouble. So I cut off the engines and made an emergency landing right in the middle of this wheat field. Luckily, I was unhurt, but as I was climbing out of my cockpit, I saw a - ”

“A green sedan.”

“ _Hush!_ But, yes, a green sedan. This old farmer and his wife got out of the car and confronted me. They had a pitchfork, and my God, were they ready to use it! The farmer asked, ‘Are you a China gal or a Japanese gal?’ I said, ‘I’m a China gal, sir,’ because I’m…well, I _am_ Chinese. But the farmer took it completely the wrong way! He let out an almighty war cry as if he were charging up the beach at Normandy and ran towards me, ready to spear me with his pitchfork! I screamed and ducked under the wing of my plane. ‘I’m an American, sir!’ I shouted. ‘I’m an American! I’m a _Chinese-_ American!’ I don’t think the poor man ever heard of such a thing before, he looked so shocked! But, eventually, he stood down, let me come out from under the plane, and gave me a ride back to his farm house.” 

“Well done you.” 

Hazel frowned. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Shara.”

“Well, if this wasn’t the _hundredth_ time I’ve heard the story - ”

“ - well, I haven’t told it a _hundred_ times - ”

“ - I would be able to muster a little more _enthusiasm_ \- ”

“ - you’re obviously exaggerating.” Hazel chided defensively. “ _You_ tell me a story, then. If you’re so bored of mine.” 

“I don’t have any stories to tell,” Shara replied wistfully. “Unlike you, I haven’t flown in China and in Hong Kong. I haven’t flown _Pursuit._ ” 

“Your stories in England then.” 

“You’ve heard all of them.”

“Fine. How about…” Hazel lowered her eyes for a moment and then raised them again; hesitant. “How about the story behind you and that dashing pilot then? How about that?”

Something twisted painfully in her gut. “What dashing pilot?”

Hazel fixed her with a hard stare. “Don’t be cute, Bey. It doesn’t suit you.” 

For a moment she considered lying. But she had never been much of a liar. “Alright.” She gave a sigh. “But it’s the sort of story I can tell only once.”

“That’s fine.” Hazel took her hand and squeezed it. There was an ernest look in her eyes that she hadn’t seen in anyone else’s since Jyn and since… _No, I promised myself I won’t think of him._

“You’ll think I’m stupid,” she mumbled. 

Hazel stared at her as if she had sprouted an extra head. “No, Shara, of course not. Why on _earth_ would I think that?” 

 

* * *

 

Two days later: she had been ‘stuck out’ ferrying two B-26s and came back to El Paso to the news that the Falcon was still on base, as was the handsome cocky pilot who was drawing far too much attention to himself. Tomorrow she had to fly The Senator to Mexico City in the afternoon, so she told herself she did not need to get up early; that she could spare an hour in the evening. 

Habits are, as we all know, always hard to break.

“So you haven’t found the parts you need?” was the greeting she chose. 

He saw her approaching, shrugged and stretched out his legs. “Found some parts. Not all of them. Still got a ways to go before she can take to the skies again.” 

He was sitting on the steps of the abandoned maintenance shack which he had turned into a make-shift bedroom; through the crack in the door she could see a lumpy old mattress, a mot-eaten pillow, a blanket with holes in it. Chewie was curled up beside him on the ground; his ears had perked up when he spotted her.

“At least there’s no more smoke,” she observed. 

“Yup. Ain’t that a prize?” He cracked open a can of beer. On the step beside him were three more; one was already empty and crunched on the ground. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

She sat down next to him and accepted the beer. Then he cracked open another one for himself. For a while they sat in silence, drinking and watching how the sunlight reflected off the Falcon _._ The beer was cold, so she pressed the can to her sweaty neck; thankful; grateful. And for a moment, one glorious moment, she thought the past might return. Perhaps she could be fifteen again, drunk on being young, and he could be the boy next door who always came around too often.

Eventually she asked him, “Have you been back?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, I have. Before I came down for training at Sweetwater.” 

He tilted his head to the side. Smirked. “What? You want me to congratulate you?” 

She rolled her eyes at him. “No, of course not.” She took a swig of beer and found her gaze straying to the Falcon _._ “Everything’s changed, though. You wouldn’t have recognised it. The park we used to go to is now a mall and your place has been turned into a drug store.”

“Good for them.” 

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Han let out a chuckle. “ _Should_ it bother me?” He put down his unfinished beer to light a cigarette. 

She studied him quietly. “Nothing bothers you.” 

“Yeah, well, sweetheart, I don’t appreciate you coming over here - ”

“Miss Bey!” a voice suddenly cracked through the summer air like a whip. 

Shara turned, spotted the speaker and immediately scrambled to her feet.

“Senator Organa! I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know you were - ”

The Senator, Leia Organa, gave a tiny reassuring smile. “It’s perfectly alright, Miss Bey, there is no need to panic.” 

Leia’s gaze shifted from Shara and landed on Han who had also gotten to his feet. A flicker that Shara could not read flashed through the younger girl’s expression. But whatever it was, it disappeared as quick as it came.

“Miss Bey, I was hoping to talk to you about our flight tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Senator.” Shara’s mind whirled as she tried to figure out how to get rid of her beer. Should she toss it to the ground? Put it down on the steps? Hide it behind her? But hadn’t Leia already seen it? But then why hadn’t she addressed it?

Leia said, “I understand that we’re leaving at eleven in the morning, Miss Bey.”

“Yes - yes, ma’am.” 

“Is it possible for us to leave at nine instead and return at the same time?”

“Nine, ma’am?”

“Yes. Nine. It will give me more time to conduct my work in Mexico.”

“Of- of course, ma’am. Whatever you want.”

“Thank you, Miss Bey.” Another reassuring smile and Leia turned, about to leave, when Han Solo spoke up. 

“What, Your Worshipfulness? Too proud to say hello to an old friend?” 

Leia scoffed. “Old friend?” 

Shara stared at Han. “You know Senator Leia Organa?” _The lucky, fucking bastard._

“Know her?” Han plastered a grin to his face. His hands went to his hips. He stood; swaggered in place. “Well, I think we’re pretty well acquainted, won’t you say, Your Royal Highnessness?” 

Leia whipped around with such fury on her face, Shara was taken aback. “I’ve told you,” snarled Leia, “never to call me that!”

“What? Your Royal Highnessness? Your Worshipfulness?” 

“ _Both!_ ” 

“You know what I think, Princess? I think you heard I was here and you couldn’t resist to let a gorgeous guy like me out of your sight again.”

Shara was completely lost. “ _Again?_ ” 

But both Leia and Han ignored her. Leia stepped toward Han until she was close enough it made him flinch a little. She only came up to his chin, but she stood her ground, her arms crossed, staring up at him with coldness. Leia always had the knack for it: for pushing her shoulders back and giving a look as if to say, “Come on, World, I dare you to do you best.” 

“I have nothing to say to you that I haven’t said already,” said Leia vehemently. “You’re a scoundrel who doesn’t care for anything or anybody.” 

Han pointed a finger at himself in mock-surprise. “Why, I always thought you liked scoundrels!”

“You promised you would help us.”

“Hey! I made no such promises!”

“But instead you took your reward and you left!”

“You didn’t want me to stay, Princess, so why should I?”

“I _asked_ you to stay. I said you were a natural leader.” 

“ _Senator Organa_ asked me to stay.” Han glowered. “Not you.” 

For a second Leia wavered, but then her eyes snapped with anger and she turned abruptly away. “We’re going around in circles. Trying to reason with you is useless. I give up.”

“You give up, huh? Well, I don’t think that’s fair - ”

“Nine o’clock on the dot, Miss Bey. Bring a thermal of coffee. Good evening to you.” 

And with that Leia Organa marched away, not bothering to look back. 

For a moment, Han stared after her. Then he turned to grab a new can of beer and began to crack it open. “Goddamn it!” he growled. She spotted blood seeping from his thumb as he nearly dropped the can. 

Sighing, she stepped forward and offered a hand. “Give it here.” 

He tossed her the can. She caught it by the tips of her fingers, cracked it open, and handed it back to him. Wordlessly they resumed their seats. Han seemed to have reverted back to his usual laid-back self, as if the fire had gone out of him.

“So…” she began softly, “how do you know Senator Organa?”

Han shrugged nonchalantly but did not quite meet her eye. “I got accidentally tangled up in one of the government’s affairs during one of my runs. Helped her out of a tight spot. She wanted me to stick around and help with this goddamn war.” He shrugged again. “Well, you heard her. I’m a naturally leader, apparently.” He gave a bitter scoff. “I couldn’t do it. Took my reward and left.”

“ _Why?_ ” 

“I’ve always been my own boss, Bey. You know that.” 

There was another question here she should ask; it was staring them both right in the face. But asking it meant she had to hear a lie from him. Or worse, she would have to hear the truth. And still, after all these years, she was not yet ready to hear either. 

 

* * *

 

The Christmas card from Jyn Erso had one simple message: _Merry Christmas, you silly goose. Love, Jyn._ With a picture of Santa Claus smiling benignly up at her from the other side of the card. 

Shara kept it under her pillow: the rectangular hard piece of paper which contained the last words she had gotten from her best friend many months ago, reduced to a couple of curves and scrawls that did not mean much. Something was wrong with Jyn, she knew; the less she’s saying, the more something’s happening. But what help could she offer her friend when she refused to let her in?

The seconds ticked by. Then she put the postcard back where it was and retrieved her own letter. She had not gotten very far. Only: 

_Dear Jyn,_

_Things are very busy here. We work seven days a week and we sometimes get ‘stuck out’ for more than three days. But I’m enjoying myself, and the girls are nice; the hard work does not seem to matter as long as we’re doing our bit. The summer weather here in El Paso is also not too bad. I can’t say I miss the English rain._

_But, honey, the thing is…._

_The thing is…_

She longed to write _“The thing is I don’t know what to do”._ But for some reason she could not bring herself to do it. She thought she knew how to do it before - to condense all her thoughts, all her feelings and all her fears into trivial things that another human being would understand. Now she realised that she was nothing but an amateur. Hopeless. 

The seconds ticked by. And she put the unfinished letter back under her pillow. She told herself, _Let’s save it for another day. Another day._

 

* * *

 

“Tell me a story.”

“Again?” 

“Yes. Again.”

Hazel whispered, “What do you want to hear?”

“Something I haven’t heard before.”

“Something with pitchforks and wheat fields in Kansas?”

“I repeat: something I haven’t heard before.” 

“What about the one where I got arrested?”

“While you were ‘stuck out’ in Georgia and got picked up by those policemen who thought you were impersonating an army officer? Assholes!” Shara hissed angrily. “How did you get out of that one again?”

“I picked the lock of my cell, took out three guards in the night and escaped on horseback.”

“Yes, and I’m married to Clark Gable. Come on, Hazel. _Really._ ” 

“Fine. I called Nancy Love in Cincinnati, and she gave the sheriff such a tongue-lashing, he drove me to the airport!” 

They used their blankets to muffle their laughter so not to wake the others. When the laughter subsided, Hazel reached out and took her hand.

“Shara, I know you’re very confused right now with Han Solo being here, but everything’s going to be alright.”

She felt as if the ground had fallen from under her. “Is it?”

“Yes, it is. Whatever happens next, everything is going to be alright.”

“Everything? With Han? With the war? With the WASP?” She felt tears welling up in her eyes and she quickly brushed them away. “I’ve heard the rumours, you know. So have you. The more we’re winning this war, the more chance there is of us getting disbanded. And - and what is going to happen after that, Hazel? When - when we can’t fly anymore. When we’re _forgotten._ ” 

“Hey, hey, we’re not going to be _forgotten.”_ Hazel squeezed her hand hard with sudden desperation. “Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out together, alright? I promise you. We’ll figure it out. Now…” - she squeezed her hand again - “…tell me a story.” 

Shara gave a broken laugh. “A story?”

“ _Yes!_ Something happy. To lighten the mood.” 

So she told an old story of when she, Jyn, Aster, Anna and Rosemary went to the beach in Brighton and build sandcastles. But the real happy story, the one she ached to tell but couldn’t, was this: 

_A guy took me dancing in London on New Year’s Day. I wore a pink dress that he said made me look like cotton candy. We sneaked into the Ritz just before midnight, and when the clock struck twelve, streamers rained down from the sky. There were lights on the ceiling, on the walls, on the floor, and a band was playing Billie Holiday on the stage when he kissed me. And I was so happy, I thought, maybe it’s past time I went looking for my father._

 

* * *

 

Three days later: Hazel was still out on one of her _Pursuit_ missions when Shara returned from towing targets to find Dee in their quarters. The young girl was chirping away happily while she brushed Jane’s hair. The conversation was mundane enough - her last flight, the new officers from Houston, letters from home - when the information was dropped from no where like it was completely inconsequential. 

Shara, who was in the middle of removing her shoes, froze. “What - what was that, Dee?”

The girl paused with brush in hand. “Oh, haven’t you heard, Miss Bey? Han Solo just finished fixing his plane. He’s leaving soon and he’s - Miss Bey? Miss Bey!” 

She found him lying on his back underneath the Falcon, tinkling with some last minute adjustments. Chewie ran up to her, but she only gave him a scratch behind the ear and pushed him away. 

“Han? Goddamn it, _Han_!”

Han Solo turned, saw her and got to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers and shirt. “What is it, Bey? You look like you’re about to slap me again, and, frankly, I’m not in the mood for - ”

“Were you going to tell me that you’re leaving?” 

At least the man had the decency to grimace. “Oh. That. Listen, sweetheart - ”

“ _Shara._ ” 

“Shara.” He shrugged and spread out his hands. “Come on. You know how it goes, Bey. You know me. I don’t stay still for long, and when I’m ready to be on the move, then I’m outta here. Nothing’s keeping me in this godforsaken place, and it’s really nice seeing you again, it really is, but - ”

“I waited for you.” The words came out before she could stop herself. He looked just as shocked as she felt when he heard it. 

“Listen, Bey - ” 

“I waited for you. For a _year.” And for all the years after, too._

He was not smiling now; his lips had curled into one grim defensive line. “You said you’re not really mad at me.”

“Of course I said that, you asshole! I have always been afraid of being angry with you because I’ve always thought that if you knew how mad I was, I would lose you. But then I realised I lost you already! A long time ago! More fool me!”

“Jesus Christ, Bey, don’t make a fucking scene - ”

“My eighteenth birthday. I thought, hey, it’s been a year. Eighteen is an important age. He would come back to explain where he’s been or he would send for me. He would call. Or at least mail me a card. But..nothing. _Nothing.”_

“I was - ”

“Do you know that someone asked me to marry him when I was in England? And I _couldn’t_ \- ” 

“If you messed something up with some guy, Bey, that’s on you! Not on me. You can’t put that all on me. You hear?”

“You were my _best friend.”_ She made the words sound like a curse. “My _best_ friend. I loved you. And you _left._ You inconsiderate, lying sack of _shit!_ ”

Someone else would have protested, would have fought back, would have apologised. But not Han Solo. He gave a sigh and ran a tired hand across his forehead. Stood back as if _he_ was giving _her_ space. “Shara - ”

But there were other people who were calling her name as well: Dee and Jane, running up the path from the pilots' quarters. 

Shara bit down on her bottom lip. “For God’s sake, Dee, not now. Whatever it is - ” 

But the rest of her sentence trailed away once she saw her friends’ expressions as they came closer; once she saw the horror written there: the tears, the pale faces, the white eyes. Like ghosts.

 

* * *

 

_Tell me a story._

The story was this:

Three days ago, Hazel Ying Lee received orders to go to the Bell Aircraft factory at Niagara Falls, New York to pick up a P-63 and deliver it to the base in Great Falls, Montana. Bad weather delayed her at Fargo, North Dakota for a day. Once the weather improved, she was allowed to leave Fargo, and she was cleared to land in Great Falls a little after two in the afternoon. Unbeknownst to her, many P-63s were approaching the airfield at the same time, and there was confusion in the control tower. Upon landing, Hazel’s plane collided with another P-63 and both planes went up in flames. Hazel was pulled from the wreckage by the other pilots at the airfield. She died two days later from her wounds. 

She was thirty-two years old.

_Tell me a story._

The story was this: 

Three days after Hazel’s death, her family in Portland, Oregon received another telegram: their son, and Hazel’s beloved brother, who was serving with the U.S. Tank Corps in France, had been killed in combat. A burial site was picked out by the family in a Portland cemetery. At first the cemetery insisted that no Asians were allowed to be buried ‘in the White section’, but the family’s will ultimately prevailed and Hazel and her brother were laid to rest alongside each other on a sloping hill which overlooked the Willamette River. Hazel was not granted a military funeral, for the WASPs had not been given military status by the country they served. 

_Tell me a story._

The story was this: 

Her flight jacket was still smouldering when they pulled her out of the airplane. 

 

* * *

 

_We’re not going to be forgotten. Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out together. I promise._

Life is short, Shara Bey had learned. She knew now that change is a choice rather than a natural occurrence; you cannot sit on the porch in a rocking chair and expect it to _happen_ to you like the seasons. She had learned that you can step out on the road one day and turn your head to the side, and have your entire world end in the blink of an eye.

Shara Bey had learned. But she had learned too late. 

_'Twould been better for us both had we never_

_In this wide and wicked world had never met_

_But the pleasure we both seemed to gather_

_I'm sure, love, I'll never forget_

The radio was playing a lazy country song and the place was far too empty, even for a Friday afternoon; only one cowboy was playing pool and a Tejano pilot sat at one of the tables nursing a glass of beer. The waitress was in the kitchens, washing the dishes. The person she was looking for, however, was at the bar, like she knew he would be. A bottle of beer. A cigarette. His dog at his heels. 

_Oh, you told me once, dear, that you loved me;_

_You vowed that we never would part_

_But a link in the chain has been broken_

_Leaving me with a sad and aching heart_

She had not attended Hazel’s funeral; her work schedule had not allowed it. But the sight of him sitting there gave her second thoughts. Perhaps she should have sought him out every day since the moment that Jane and Dee had told her the news. Perhaps she should have jumped into his plane at the first chance she got and flown it all the way to Portland. Or flown it all the way to Montana. To the Great Falls. To where Hazel had burned and died. Perhaps she should have…

But the moment she found out about her friend’s fate, all she could think of was this: _Tell me a story. Something happy. To lighten the mood. Tell me a story._

Oh, God, how stupid everything seemed.

He spotted her from across the room and raised a hand. 

_When the cold, cold grave shall enclose me_

_Will you come near and shed just one tear?_

_Will you say to the strangers around you_

_A poor heart you have broken lies here?_

“I didn’t think you would answer my call.” She took a seat beside him and declined his offer for a cigarette. “I thought you might have left town.”

“Well…” His shoulders lifted and fell. A touch of the cigarette to his lips. “I figured…maybe I should stick around for a little while. How did you know where I was staying?”

“The girls talk.” 

“Which one?”

“Not the one you think.” 

He smirked and shook his head like it did not matter. “I got what you asked for.” 

“Was it difficult?”

“No.” He hesitated, the smirk sliding off his face a little bit. “Well…Leia likes you, so it wasn’t difficult. And her connections with the British Embassy are solid. But she did have questions about _why_ you need the phone number.”

“And did you tell her?”

“It’s none of my business, Bey.” 

She reached over for his glass of beer like she used to and stole a sip. “I would have asked her myself if I hadn’t been so…” 

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed. Tapped his middle finger against his cigarette. “It’s fucking shit. My condolences.”

She gave a laugh. “Your condolences? Is that the best you can do?”

What followed was a pause that lasted much longer than it ought.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. 

“For what?”

“For all of it.” 

“Han Solo apologising? Are my ears deceiving me?” 

He chuckled. Ran his thumb across his forehead. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it, sweetheart.”

“ _Shara._ ”

“Shara.” He took out the paper from his pocket and lay it down on the counter for her. It was folded, as if to protect the secrets within. “Good luck. Shara.” 

She simply looked at him for a while and tried to commit everything about this moment to memory. Then she told him quietly, “I missed you. Very much.”

“I know.” His fingers rested on the rim of his glass. His eyes turned upward to the ceiling as if in prayer. “I thought about you too.”

“Liar.” 

He looked at her straight in the eye. “We wouldn’t have worked out, Bey,” he told her. “You deserve much better than me.”

“Yes, I do realise that now,” she admitted quietly. She watched him for a while as he smoked and took another drink. Then at length, she boldly added, “But perhaps you deserve much better than me, too. Perhaps a certain tiny brunette who can stare you down?”

“What?” He scoffed, not quite meeting her eyes. “You think a senator and a guy like me?”

But she only gave him a knowing smile and stood up with the folded piece of paper in her hand. She pressed her lips briefly to his cheek, turning all the years back and then speeding them forward again. 

“Goodbye, Han.” 

_Oh, I'm thinking tonight of my blue eyes_

_Who is sailing far over the sea_

_I'm thinking tonight of my blue eyes_

_And I wonder if he ever thinks of me_

 

* * *

 

She used the telephone back at the airfield. The one in the mess hall. It was late afternoon; not many people were around so she would not be bothered. Leia’s numbers took a couple of tries to connect. Then she had to get pass a few operators. Fortunately Leia had thought of that too and had written down the answers she must give and the people she should ask for. 

After nearly ten minutes, she finally broke through. 

For a long while no one picked up. Then suddenly - 

“Hello?” His voice was muffled and sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of the ocean. 

For a few seconds, she could not bring herself to answer. Then she said all at once, in one breath, “Oh, I’m sorry if I woke you, I don’t know what time it is over there, I should have asked someone before I called, maybe I should - ”

“ _Shara?_ ”

She felt herself smile; it had been too long. “Yes, yes. It’s me.” 

“Is - is everything alright?” She heard the sounds of sheets rustling; he was sitting up on the bed. A sound of a lamp being flicked on. 

“Yes, yes, everything’s alright.” 

“Bloody hell, I never thought you’d…How did you get my number?”

“I know someone who knows someone and she - she has some contacts.” Shara drew in a long breath and shifted the phone to her other ear. “Is - is this a good time?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” The sound of the bed creaking. Then silence. “What is it, Shara? Are you alright?” 

“Yes.” _But not entirely._ “Are _you?_ ”

“Well, I’m much better now.” Another few seconds of silence. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright, Shara? You don’t sound very - ”

“Kes…”

“Yes?”

“Shut up for a minute.” 

He laughed. “Bloody hell, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, but shut it.”

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t say anything until you want me to.”

“Thank you." She paused for a while and then said, "The reason I called you is because I have something important to ask you.” 

“You can ask me anything, Shara. You know that.” 

“I know.” She took a breath; a moment; a choice. “Alright. Here it comes.” 

“Here _what_ comes?”

“Kes.”

“Yes?”

“Will you marry me?” 

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. That was _rough_. Umm…I really hope I didn’t let you guys down, especially with the inclusion of the two original characters! Anyway, let’s get down to the history: 
> 
> \- The WASP started out as two separate organisations - the Women's Flying Training Detachment (WFTD) and the Women's Auxiliary Ferrying Squadron (WAFS) - before merging into one on August 5, 1943. There were around 1,000 female pilots who flew with the WASP, flying over 60 million miles, ferrying every type of aircraft. At first the first class of WASP pilots were trained at the Houston Municipal Airport, but because of the lack of resources and the less-than-stellar weather conditions, they later moved to Sweetwater, Texas. After finishing their training, the women were posted at 122 bases across the country. Their duties included ferrying planes, ferrying personnel and towing targets for live anti-aircraft artillery practice. Between September 1942 and December 1944, when the organisation was disbanded, the WASP delivered more than 12,000 aircrafts. Around 134 _Pursuit_ pilots like Hazel also flew high powered fighters such as the P-63 Kingcobra, P-51 Mustang and P-39 Airacobra.
> 
> \- Hazel Ying Lee was born in Portland, Oregon and was one of the first Chinese-American women to earn a pilot's license. When Japan made incursions into China in 1933, Hazel travelled to China hoping to join the Chinese Air Force. However, they would not accept a woman pilot and Hazel spent the next few years flying for a private airline. When Japan invaded China in 1937, Hazel escaped to Hong Kong. She later returned to America and joined the WASP after the attack on Pearl Harbour. I did change certain aspects of her story in this chapter: in real life she was stationed in Michigan, not El Paso, and she died on November 25, 1944, and not in the middle of 1944 as implied in this chapter. However, the following facts about her are true: the circumstances of her death and burial, the ‘farmer and pitchfork’ story she loved to tell, how she loved to cook for her fellow pilots and the story of her writing ‘Fat Ass’ in Chinese on the tail of a male pilot’s plane. 
> 
> \- Biggs Army Air Field in El Paso was a real airfield that was used during the war. The Avenger Airfield in Sweetwater, Texas, however, is the main location that’s associated with the WASP, and it has now been turned into a museum. It was true that many male pilots would fake ‘emergency landings’ on the base so they could catch a glimpse of the female trainees; one man really did take out his engines so that his emergency landing would appear realistic. Another true story, although it did not happen to Hazel, was the WASP pilots getting arrested by a sheriff in Georgia who really did believe they were impersonating army officers. It was also common that the women would really get ‘stuck out’ for more than two days during their ferrying missions, unable to get back to base. 
> 
> \- Other than Hazel, Maggie Gee (another Chinese American), two Mexican American women and Ola Mildred Rexroat (a Native American), the WASP was a predominantly white organisation. As mentioned in the chapter, African American applicants were not accepted; an African American applicant was even asked to withdraw her application.
> 
> \- Thirty-eight WASP pilots, including Hazel, lost their lives during the war, some in training and some on active duty. Because the WASP was not granted military status or any military benefits, the family or her fellow pilots had to pay for the expenses of getting the diseased sent home. The army also did not allow the U.S. flag to be placed on the coffin of a fallen WASP. It was only until 2009 that the WASP was recognised when President Barack Obama and the United States Congress awarded the WASP the Congressional Gold Medal. 
> 
> \- The song playing in the bar is _I’m Thinking Tonight Of My Blue Eyes_ by The Carter Family. 
> 
> ——
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! [You can also follow me on Tumblr here](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ——
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “In My Heart There Was A Kind Of Fighting” - in which we go back to Cassian in his precarious situation_


	11. In My Heart There Was A Kind Of Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go back to Cassian in his precarious situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the late update, guys. I’ve been going through some personal turmoil and have lost a bit of enthusiasm for this story. Hopefully this chapter has not turned out so awful as result! On a more positive note, we’ve come full circle! We’re at the point of the prologue! From now on, it’s going to be full steam ahead to the ending! 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than _The Last Jedi_. So please leave one if you can! (Yes, I really did enjoy the film, and, yes, I’m willing to discuss it with you but only if you come at me with sense and openness.)

**_Previously:_** _Cassian has left Kay and Jyn behind in England to_ _conduct a secret mission in France._ _While he’s attempting to expose double-agents for the SOE, he is shot and arrested by the Gestapo. That’s, essentially, all you need to know._

* * *

  

_We are all afraid, like little children in dark places._

_How simple is life and how simple is extermination._

**Harold Heifetz,** ‘Ritual for the Night’

 

* * *

 

Three walls. Iron bars. Hard floor. A mattress. _How do you break the code?_ A chamber pot. An empty plate. The stench. _Who are the other agents in the area?_ The cold. The taste of blood. _I want names._ The pain from the gun shot wound. Above the right knee. It ached. _When is the invasion coming? Where?_ Darkness. 

And then there were questions he would ask himself in the silence:

_What day is it?_

_What time of day is it?_

_How long have I been here?_

_What have I said?_

_What have I_ not _said?_

Three walls. Iron bars. Hard floor. A mattress. _Keep running. Don’t look back._ A chamber pot. An empty plate. The stench. _Don’t look back. Don’t look back._ Faces weaved in and out of his consciousness. His father. His sister, white and still and dead. Kay. Kes. Draven. Jyn. _Jyn…_

Back when he had a cellmate - a middle aged French Resistance fighter - the faces came left often. The _real_ face - bearded, bloodied, equally as battered as his - would greet him everyday when he was brought back to the cell after an interrogation. Calloused hands - hands of an old man who had lived years of hard life - would cradle his face and wipe the blood from his mouth, his brow, his forehead. His French was not the best but he could understand the old man well enough in those moments: _stay strong, lad, we’ll survive this._ A voice from the depths of a deep blue ocean. _Here. Bend your head to the side, lad. Your tooth had come lose._

He’d seen it in films and read it in books: how a prisoner would make scratches on the wall to keep track of the days. But, no, he couldn’t possibly do it. Not when his bones felt as if they were made of glass. Every sinew, every joint, every muscle; dust. _When is the invasion coming? Where?_ He would curl up on the mattress, coughing, hugging himself against the chill. _Turn your head to the side, lad. Let me clean your wound._ What did it matter? he wanted to say. Let me bleed. 

_Is it like this for the prisoners I interrogated?_ he wanted to wonder. But he was too tired to wonder. His life had come down to this: the darkness. _Who are the other agents in the area? How do you break the code? When is the invasion coming? Where?_ The old man would push a piece of bread into his hand whenever a tray of food was brought to them by a guard. _Eat, lad. Keep your strength up. Live._

But it would be his father’s face he saw instead. 

Three walls. Iron bars. Hard floor. A mattress…. Darkness. _Darkness. Keep running. Don’t look back._

And one day the old man simply disappeared. One day he came back from his interrogation and the Frenchman was not there; on his mattress was just an empty space. He understood it then without having to ask the guards: death always comes unannounced for those such as them. He heard the other prisoners in the night sometimes, screaming as they were killed. The hacking sounds were so terrible, the gunshots had almost become a solace. Hard floor. A mattress. Darkness. _Keep your strength up. Live._ What did it matter? he wanted to say. Let me bleed.

_What have I said?_

_What have I_ not _said?_

Then his thoughts would stray to a particular memory that he replayed so often it had become imprinted on the back of his eyelids. He was on a train platform. His hands were in hers, his eyes on her face and he bent down to place a light kiss on her cheek; a farewell. 

“Thank you,” he told her.

“Whatever for?” 

But he could not find the right words in time; the train was about to leave. So he gave her hand one last squeeze, got on the train and turned around to look at her one last time. He found her standing there oh-so-small. Nearly lost in the sea of people, yet shining more brightly to him than any other being.

Regret filled his heart. He should have gotten off the train then, he thought. Or he should have never let the train pull away from the station in the first place. Sometimes he would imagine what it would be like had he jumped down, swept her up in his arms and kissed her. Other times he would picture just walking back to her and standing there until the train left without him. 

But every time the memory played out in his mind, it kept happening the way it happened in real life: she gave a wave, he waved back, the train sped up and she was gone in a heartbeat. 

 

* * *

 

The change came so subtly, he did not even notice it at first: a new guard. 

Bloodied and battered from an interrogation, he could hardly stand, let alone walk or open his eyes. The little things crept up on him instead: how the boy put his arm around him and let him lean on him more than a guard usually would, the starched texture of the boy’s uniform against his fingertips, the gentleness when he was let down onto the ground. Then he heard the _click_ as his handcuffs were removed. 

A tiny voice. In heavily-accented English. Thin. As if it were still coated in innocence: “Why don’t you just tell him what he wants to hear? So he wouldn’t beat you so.”

Cassian cracked open a swollen eye. “Are you new?” But he should not have asked; it was obvious. “How old are you, boy?”

“Eighteen.” 

_Oh, the poor soul._ What was he at eighteen? An old man who had already lived a thousand years. Compared to him this boy here looked like a new born babe - white blond hair, pink-skinned, round unblemished brown eyes that saw trees, rainbows, waterfalls, a world beyond this one. 

He spat out a mouthful of blood. “Water.” And closed his eyes again. 

He heard the boy moving around. Then a glass was pushed into his hand. Cold. His lips were too cracked to register the taste. 

“Where are you from, boy?” he asked. “Munich? Berlin?” 

The boy did not answer but said, “I - I have only just joined up.”

“And they sent you here?” 

“I’m - my father has - connections. I was not supposed to - ”

“See any fighting?” He winced. His knee was hurting too much today. “But you didn’t expect to see any of this, did you?” 

The boy did not reply. When Cassian looked at him, he turned his head away. 

He made sure his tone had softened before he asked, “What’s your name?” 

“Hans.” 

“Hans from Munich? Berlin?” 

“Just Hans.” 

“Just Hans.” Even smiling hurt, so it was a grimace he gave the boy. “More water please, Hans. If you’re so kind.” 

For a fraction of a heartbeat, Hans looked as though he might say no, but then he gave a quick nod and took back the glass. 

And that was how Cassian put his plan into motion: with the little things. Water at first. Then a cigarette. Then _two_ cigarettes. A blanket. An extra piece of bread. Then it was the time. What day it was in the week? The month? After that it was questions about the boy himself, subtly thrown in during their off-handed conversations. Seduction is a game; he’d learned that since he was very young. The boy had a sweetheart back home? Use it. The boy was homesick? Exploit that. The boy had a good heart? Make it count. Reel him in. Bit by bit. Gesture by gesture. They were not friends; both of them were not stupid enough to believe that. Rather they had an unspoken understanding that they were acquaintances adrift at sea, clutching on a single lifejacket, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of dry land.

He knew it was Christmas when the boy sneaked in to give him an extra piece of ham. And they celebrated New Year’s with a glass of bourbon through the bars of his cell. 

“Here’s to 1944,” said Cassian as they toasted. “May it be better than 1943. Did you make a wish, Hans?” 

“I’m not seven, Andor.”

“But did you? 

The boy smiled thinly, and took a sip of his own drink. “I did, as a matter of fact.” 

“What did you wish for?”

He took a long pause, and then said, “Home.” 

It was two months after that when Cassian decided to make his next move. One day after he was brought back to his cell, he asked Hans for water, a cigarette, and then sat with his back to the wall looking up at the boy. Hans stood leaning against his cell with his eyes fixed on the entrance; what excuse could he give other guards if he were caught talking to a prisoner? 

“Have you heard from your father?” Cassian asked quietly. The boy’s father had been sick for months now, he’d learned. He had fallen and hurt his back. 

Hans winced. “He’s - he’s better now. My mother wrote and said he doesn’t need the crutches anymore.” The boy had a way of talking that came out more like a mumble. Like he hated talking to Cassian but had no other choice. “The doctor said he can go home now, but that he has to be careful around the house.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes.” Hans shifted on the spot. “I suppose so.” His eyes strayed over to Cassian; reluctant. “Do you want another cigarette? You’re almost done.”

“Why not?”

Cassian let the boy light it for him and then leaned back against the wall to smoke. He allowed the silence to linger for a long moment before he said, “Listen, Hans, I have something to ask you.” 

“I gave you two cigarettes already.” 

“Yes, and I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But…” He smiled wanly. “I was wondering if you could get me a radio.”

“A radio?” The boy gave a choked laugh. “This is no time for jokes, Cassian.” 

“I’m not joking.”

“I can’t get you a radio.”

“I’m not asking you to let me keep it.” Cassian took a short drag and the cigarette came away from his lips stained with blood. “You can leave it down here with me for an hour or so. Two days a week. Please. It is merely a kindness.”

The boy’s eyes found his face and then quickly drifted away. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?”

“I’ve heard…things.”

“What things?” The boy would not answer so he pressed on. “Do you mean the invasion? Oh, I know nothing about _that._ ” _Almost nothing._

The boy wore a shifty, uncomfortable look. “I heard that the Resistance could communicate by radio. That if you listened to the programs - ”

“Oh, Hans, you don’t really believe that, do you?” Cassian gave a short bark of laughter. “That’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“Well, my officer said that’s how the Resistance agents get their orders from England. And that they’re currently preparing for the invasion. We don’t know when or where it’s happening, but I’ve heard…we’re stationing troops around here to stop it from reaching Paris. And if I were to give you a radio - ”

“I just wanted to listen to some music, Hans.” Cassian gave a heavy sigh. “A little Billie Holliday. A little jazz. Please. It’s…” - _wait for it, make him see how you’re struggling_ \- “…it’s…” _Better to say nothing. Should I cry? No. No, better not. That’d be too much. Just let him see your face._

The boy looked away as though he was afraid that if he looked too long, Cassian’s pain would become his. He muttered, “I might be able to…once or twice a week.” 

“That’s all I ask for. Once or twice a week.” 

“I can’t promise anything for sure.”

“No, I understand.” He made sure to hold the eye contact when he said, “You’re a good man, Hans.”

One week later: the radio was brought down by Hans some time during the night; from what Cassian could discern, it was about four hours since he had had his dinner and it must be pitch-black outside. The boy slipped in with the radio set in one hand and a torch in the other. There was no time for words. Hans simply put the radio down on the ground just outside his cell where he could reach for it and left. 

So another new routine began. Once or twice every week, Hans would leave the radio with him and come back down to collect it after an hour had passed. Radio Londres - the station broadcasted from London by the Free French - was hard to find. On some nights Cassian would not be able to detect a signal at all; he could only lie on the floor and listen to static. But on lucky nights when he could locate the station, the world opened up for him. The cold became bearable, the pain in his knee and limbs more manageable. 

_"Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français... (This is London! The French speaking to the French…) Before we begin, please listen to some personal messages.”_

Even when he could not understand these coded messages, he guarded them close to his chest as comfort, and kept reciting them to himself like a prayer. Sometimes there were extracts from poems. Other times there were random statements that made him smile: _"There is a fire at the insurance agency”, "Jean has a long moustache”, “Donna needs another leg to stand on”_ and so on and so forth. Later, in the stillness of his cell, he went through those messages in his head for what felt like thousand and thousand of times. What orders could they possibly carry? he wondered. Who else was out there, listening to them? He wondered what became of Melshi and Nora. But most of all he wondered what became of Jyn. _Is she still waiting? Should she be waiting?_ Perhaps it would be better for them both if she wasn’t. There was his father again: _keep running. Don’t look back. Don’t look back._

It was months after he first got the radio that he began to notice a change in Radio Londres. On one particular day, he could count up to twenty messages in a single hour. Although he could not decode them, the rapid rate in which they were being sent told him one thing: an important operation was underway.

Two days later, he caught these lines as he was curled up on the floor, as close to the radio as he possibly could be: _"Les sanglots longs / des violons / de l’automne”._ He mouthed the translation to himself - ‘ _long sobs of autumn violins’ -_ and stored it to memory. A week later it was the next verse of the poem: _"Blessent mon coeur / d'une langueur / monotone”. Wound my heart with a monotonous languor._ Even after Hans had come down to retrieve the radio, the phrase was still stuck in his mind. He went to sleep muttering it to himself - ‘ _wound my heart with a monotonous languor’ -_ not quite knowing for certain what it signified. 

What he knew for certain, however, was the first four notes of Beethoven's 5th Symphony that was played at the beginning of that day’s broadcast. The notes undoubtedly corresponded to the _dot-dot-dot-dash_ of the Morse Code. It told him something was afoot. Something was coming over the seas. And he was running out of time. _Dot-dot-dot-dash._

It was the letter _V. V_ for Victory. 

 

* * *

 

The next day: the time had come for him to hurry things along. 

“The key?” repeated Hans, aghast. 

Cassian nodded. “Yes, the key.” 

The boy’s face paled. “What are you going to do with the key?”

“Pick my fingernails.” Cassian rolled his eyes and spat out a mouthful of blood; the interrogator had been particularly…robust today. “I’m using it to escape this godforsaken place, boy, what’d you think?”

“But…” The boy’s mouth opened and closed in a manner that made him look like a fish. “I brought you the radio, food, water, cigarettes. I - ”

“Let me tell you a secret, Hans.” He stretched out his injured leg and rubbed his tired knee. “A secret your bloody superior officers can’t tell you.”

“What secret?”

“Germany is going to lose this war.”

“No, we’re not, everything is going well - ”

“Come now, Hans. You know it, they know it, we all know it. The manner of my interrogation has all but confirmed it. And the invasion _is_ coming, boy. It might be happening right now as we speak.” 

“And you know this because…” - the boy suddenly winced - “The radio. Of course, I shouldn’t have given you the radio! I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it, I don’t know why I -”

Cassian took a drag from his mangled cigarette. Waved a lazy hand to silence the adolescent. “You have nothing to worry about, Hans. You and your friends will be gone before the Allied forces get here. A month from now you’ll be back home with your girl, drinking beer and preparing for winter. I, however…” - he cocked his head to the side and gave an ironic smile - “…I’ll be six feet underground with a bullet in my head.” The boy swallowed painfully, and Cassian continued. “I’m asking for the key as a chance to change this outcome, Hans. And if I got caught, I promise not to divulge your part in my escape. You of all people should know that I can keep a secret. These last few months have certainly proven how tightlipped I am.” 

“Yes, I know, but - ”

“I don’t know how long it’s been since I last saw my wife,” he said quietly. “I have never ever seen our son.” 

He got the reaction he was hoping for: Hans’ eyes grew wide. “You never mentioned that you had a family.” 

“I did not want you to feel sorry for me.” 

“But you’re mentioning them now.” 

“Yes. I’m mentioning them now.”

Hans moved closer until his shoulder rubbed against the bars of the cell. He looked down at Cassian, his young, frightened eyes shining apprehensively. When he spoke, it was with a whisper. 

“Do you really think I have a chance of making it home?”

“You want to study engineering in university, don’t you?” Cassian blew smoke into the boy’s face. “I guarantee a year from now you’ll be sitting in a lecture room and walking the halls with your girl on your arm.”

“You speak like you know something I don’t.”

“I know war. And I know men.” 

The boy looked as though he might cry. He rubbed his chin, pinched the bridge of his nose, then hung his head like a drowned man. “The proudest I’ve ever seen my father,” he said, “was when he took me to sign up for the army.” 

_And the proudest I’ve ever seen my father was when I first fired a gun,_ thought Cassian. He gave a nod. “And you’ll always have that memory of your old man as a consolation.”

“Is that ever enough?”

“Nothing is ever enough. But we must make do with what we have, Hans. That’s the way of the world.”

 

* * *

 

He timed his escape as best he could, but there denying the fact that he, even with Hans’ key, was going through the process essentially blind. All he knew about the prison was the path from his cell to the interrogation room. He had no other choice but to follow it, stumbling his way through a dark corridor, dragging himself up the narrow staircase with his bad knee and emerging out onto a balcony with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

It was a clear night, with the moon large in the middle of the sky and with countless of stars splattered across the blackness. There was a coolness in the air; crisp and refreshing like a river in springtime. He tried to stand up and catch sight of the surrounding countryside. If there was a forest or a town, he might be able to hide there for a while. He would have to steal some clothes, though, then discover his location and somehow find a way to get back to an English Lysander.

There were headlights from the corners of the fences, and he had to duck back down to avoid getting caught. There were sounds of guards in the yard below, up in the parapets and in the unknown corridors up ahead. He could see torchlight bouncing up and down, casting shadows on the walls. Hans had told him of a garbage pile at one corner of the prison; he could climb up the pile and hoist himself over the fence. But he had no idea where it was or how to get there. All he could do was crouch down in the dark, trying to determine whether the coast ahead was clear. 

More torchlight. More footsteps. He casted his eyes around, panic gathering up inside him. _I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I have people waiting for me._

There was a door to his right. Before he could form a better plan, he had taken out the key from his pocket, picked the lock and let himself into the room. 

He found himself in a rather spacious office. A large desk took up the most room, but there were also two cabinets, three chairs, shelves, a huge blackboard with maps on it. As he came closer, he saw that these maps were of France, Paris and the surrounding towns. Pins protruded from the papers. Pencil lines ran across it. Scribbles in German and French. For a moment, he could not make sense of it, but then Hans’ voice came to him out of the blue: _we’re stationing troops around here to stop the invasion from reaching Paris._ Then the lines and pins and scribbles transformed into tanks, troops, grenades, ambushes conducted in the dead of night; splintered bones and dead bodies littering the French countryside.

The sensible course of action was clear then: leave the room once the corridor was empty and continue searching for an escape route. (His father was adamant: _don’t look back. Keep running. Don’t look back.)_ But, like with most things in his life ever since that day he met Jyn in London, things took a turn for the unexpected. As he was about to turn around for the door, his eyes landed on the object on the desk. How could he have missed it when he first came into the room? It was sitting there plain as day: his confiscated w/t transmission set.

Cassian Andor had never been a man who believed in fate; his life had taught him otherwise. But the very moment he saw that familiar radio set, he wondered, _why not?_ All the pieces suddenly fell into place - where he was, how he got here, what he had seen along the way. _Why not?_ He could send the German troop details back home to Kay, he thought carefully. It would help the Allied invasion reach Paris faster. The information could save lives. Liberate towns. Avoid unnecessary casualties…

_Or you can save your own skin and run. Now. Don’t look back._

Suddenly, he heard a whisper out of the darkness: _You can do more._

Yes. Perhaps fate did _not_ exist, but perhaps one could make one’s own fate out of nothing, and this was his chance. Everything about this situation couldn’t possibly be a coincidence, could it? It was too painfully real to be one, he thought as he eyed the transmission set. _Bloody typical._

_I can do more._

Gestapo guards bursted through the door nearly an hour after he had made up his mind; he was nearly done with his transmission by then. They took one look at him and the w/t set, gave a yell and rushed forward. Two men grabbed him roughly by the neck and pushed him to the ground, his face flat against the wood. A boot stomped down on the nape of his neck. He heard one guard mutter in German: _damned spy!_

Yes, that’s what he was: damned. 

 

* * *

 

He woke in a different cell. This time there were no bars and no mattress. Just four walls, a chamberpot, a slot in the door where food would be pushed through. He tasted blood in his mouth. His knee was inflamed with pain. But all he could think of was this: _wound my heart with a monotonous languor._

He went back to sleep, exhausted. _Come quick. Come quick,_ he whispered across the ocean. 

He did not see Hans again after that, nor was he brought out of his cell for interrogation. The forthcoming invasion and his own actions had already signed his death warrant. It was only a matter of time; he was simply waiting to be killed. So all he did was sleep and pick at his food and sip his water and relieve himself and sleep again.

The faces returned. Talking heads. Solemn eyes. Gentle and rough touches. His father was always there. One minute he looked proud, another minute sad and disappointed. Sometimes he found himself back in Mexico, with fields and towns going up in flames all around him. Other times he was back on the beach in Dunkirk. Bombs were dropping from the sky. He could hear the Messerschmitts zooming over his head. He was quite certain that he gave a yell then, but he had no idea what words came out of his mouth. He had taken to mumbling random sentences to himself; he would catch his own voice echoing around the cell in the complete darkness quite often. _Wound my heart with a monotonous languor_ indeed. 

One night or morning or afternoon, he found himself walking down a street. There was a stillness in the air, like the moment before dawn when the world was still asleep. He could make out shapes on the road up ahead: lions. Marble lions, he knew. _What are lions doing here?_ he wondered. He looked around at the shuttered buildings, the empty roads, the broken lampposts, and he realised he had been here before. Right at this very moment. Except…now there was no rain.

Suddenly a figure moved into his line of sight. A woman, walking ahead of him; straight-backed, determined. He knew her, he thought. And he broke out into a run to catch up with her. 

“Jyn!” he called out. Because it must be Jyn; it was always Jyn in his dreams. 

But the woman turned and her face pierced through him like a lance. There were tears in her large eyes - eyes that were like his. “Have you forgotten me, child?” she said.

For a moment he found he had no voice. Then he whispered, “You died. I saw you died.” _But I have forgotten your face._ It had been a car crash. Or an explosion. Or an illness. He could not quite remember. He did not know why. 

The woman gave a fond, heartbroken smile. “You always saw too much, my love.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look down, child.”

He looked down, and there, seeping through his clothes, running down his arms, was not rain but blood. “I don’t understand,” he said again.

The woman, however, said nothing. She gave another sad smile and turned away. Then it started to rain, and she began to fade into the shower, transforming into wisps of smoke that floated away with the breeze. He wanted to shout after her: _don’t leave me! Stay!_ But she had already left him a long time ago.

He woke to the sound of footsteps up above. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ Like the beating of his own heart. 

He knew the truth right away: it was his mother he saw in the dream. It had been his father most of the time. His friends. Jyn. People he could remember in life as well as he could in death. Seeing his long forgotten mother could only mean one thing and one thing only. 

He whispered it to himself: _Today is the day I die._

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

The footsteps were coming down the stairs now; he could hear the scrapings of the men’s boots against the wood. It will be soon. What was it that Jyn had told him once? _You can do more._ Well, he had tried to do more. He had done more. And he could only hope that she would be proud of him, wherever she was. He only wished that he could see her one last time. The thought of her made him sadder than the thought of dying ever could.

“I am ready to die,” he said into the dark void.

The lock of his cell turned, quietly and meticulously as the night, and the door swung open. Then all he saw was whiteness as the person shone a torch into his face. 

“Bloody hell,” said a voice, “you smell like my grandmother’s rotting corpse.” 

_I know that voice._ Cassian lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light. “Kay?” _I’m dreaming, I must be dreaming._

His friend gave a dry laugh, and the sound nearly drew a sob from him.

“Thank the Lord, it speaks!” Kay said. 

“What - what are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, of course. Not that I particularly fancy it. An awfully inconvenient task, if you ask me.” 

“But no one’s asking you,” said a different voice. The speaker stepped up from behind Kay, another torch in hand. “See what I have to put up with all these months? Bloody useless.” 

Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. “ _Jyn?_ ” 

She smiled. And her smile was like the sun. 

“On your feet, soldier,” she said, smiling. “We’re getting you out of here.” 

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the worst chapter yet, I’m so, so sorry! Let’s just go straight to the history: 
> 
> \- Cassian’s prison is somewhat based on Fresnes Prison, which is located in the town of Fresnes, south of Paris. During the war, the prison held captured British SOE agents and members of the French Resistance. After the Allies landed on Normandy and the invasion neared Paris, the Gestapo guards started executing prisoners. (The execution by axe was something that really did happen.) Some prisoners, however, were not executed, but were relocated to various concentration camps. Fresnes Prison is still being used as a prison facility today. 
> 
> \- Cassian’s condition under torture and his accommodation in prison are based on the research I did on prisoners of the Gestapo. The state of his cell, for example, was taken entirely from the description given by a real life prisoner. 
> 
> \- Radio Londres was broadcasted from 1940 to 1944 by the BBC in London to Nazi occupied France. It was operated by the Free French who escaped from their home country, and it was used to send coded messages to the Resistance. The coded messages in this chapter are real coded messages sent during the war. The phrase at the beginning of the broadcast - “This is London! The French speaking to the French” etc. - is also a real quote used during transmissions. 
> 
> \- At the start of June 1944, the Allies began bombarding the network with messages. On 1 June alone, over 200 messages were sent. It was obvious to those listening that a significant operation was about to get underway. Beethoven's 5th Symphony was really played on Radio Londres. The first four notes of the song really did correspond to the dot-dot-dot-dash of the Morse code letter V for Victory.
> 
> \- Before D-Day, Radio Londres broadcasted the opening lines of Paul Verlaine's poem "Chanson d'automne" to let the Resistance know that the invasion would start within two weeks: _"Les sanglots longs / des violons / de l’automne” (“long sobs of autumn violins’”)_. The next set of lines, _"Blessent mon coeur / d'une langueur / monotone" ("wound my heart with a monotonous languor”)_ , indicated that it would begin within 48 hours. The Resistance were told to begin sabotaging the French railroad system in preparation for the invasion. These lines were broadcast on June 5, 1944. 
> 
> \- The D-Day invasion began on June 6, 1944. Paris was liberated on August 25, 1944. Radio Londres ended its broadcasting in late 1944 when Allied victory in France was assured. 
> 
> ——
> 
> Please, please tell me what you thought! [You can also follow me and talk to me on Tumblr here.](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)  
> ——
> 
>  
> 
> _Up next: “For You, In My Respect, Are All The World” - in which we go back in time to discover how Jyn and Kay came to be in France_


	12. For You, In My Respect, Are All The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go back in time to discover how Jyn and Kay came to be in France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my Christmas/New Year’s Eve present to you guys! Happy holidays to all of you, and I wish you much success and happiness for 2018! (And we’re nearly at the end of the story! Yay!) 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than Michael Jackson’s music. (Yes, I’m a proud MJ stan.) So please leave one if you can!

**_Previously:_ ** _Before leaving on his mission to France as part of the Prosper Network, Cassian makes Kay promise to tell Jyn in person if anything were to happen to him. Kay, although angry with Cassian for his decision to leave, promises he will do so. While a prisoner of the Gestapo, Cassian attempts an escape, but runs across information on German forces around Paris. He decides to transmit the intel back to England with the hope of aiding the Allied invasion. Because of this heroic act, he is recaptured and put back in his cell. Meanwhile, Bodhi is a pilot with the No. 138 Squadron, who specialises in transporting agents, supplies and ammunition to and from France by night._

* * *

  

_These bloody days have broken my heart._

_My lust, my youth did them depart,_

_And blind desire of estate._

**Thomas Wyatt**

 

* * *

**64 Baker Street**

**October, 1943**

 

Lieutenant James Kay was met with a deadened silence once he finished reading Cassian Andor’s coded message. Naturally he was never a person who strived to fill such silences when they occurred, but this particular interlude lasted so long, he realised that the entire room - he himself included - must be in a state of temporary shock. 

He considered saying _something._ Anything. But then slowly, General Davits Draven removed his cigar from his mouth.

“Did you decode the message correctly, Lieutenant?” 

“Of course, sir,” Kay answered defensively. _The audacity!_ “It was sent using the poem we decided on together. There is no mistaking the severity of its content.”

“Would you mind reading it again for the room?” 

‘The room’ was comprised of the F Section’s - the SOE’s French division - very top brass. In addition to Draven, there was Maurice Buckmaster, a Captain named George Knight, a French Resistance representative whom Kay did not know, and another old Etonian commander with several medals pinned to the front of his shirt. 

Kay cleared his throat and read the message again: _“Gilbert Norman is compromised. Melshi is captured. Prosper is blown.”_

“So we have confirmation at last,” said Buckmaster grimly. The Frenchman to his left wore a similar pained expression. “The _Prosper_ network is over.” 

Draven, however, regarded Kay solemnly with his unflinching gaze. “Did Andor say anything about his own status?”

“No, sir.”

“His whereabouts?”

“No, sir.” 

Draven gave a curt nod and looked to Buckmaster. “What a bloody waste of a good agent!” 

Buckmaster’s mouth twitched. “It was your idea to send the boy, Draven.”

“It was the boy’s own idea, not mine. He wanted to be the hero and now he is one. Should we give him a medal?”

“Perhaps. But first we must decide on what we should do next.” Buckmaster looked to his other two colleagues. “I propose we pull all of our _Prosper_ agents out of France. We cannot risk any more arrests. From now on, we must act on the assumption that _all_ communication from them is compromised.” 

“I concur,” said Captain Knight, a rather large man with a wispy moustache that made him look even more like a cartoon character. The other three officers nodded in agreement. 

“Let’s start composing the order,” said Buckmaster, “and get in touch with the RAF to see how many planes we can send to bring them back.”

“We must let our French Allies know too,” Draven broke in. “De Gaulle won’t be pleased, but there’s not much we can do about that.”

“I concur,” said Captain Knight. 

“And the war office,” Buckmaster said. “I can go myself and let them know we - ”

Kay could no longer resist; he never could. “Sir, if I may - ”

Buckmaster sighed. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“We cannot assume that _all_ communication is compromised, sir. We have no evidence that Captain Andor has been arrested. Knowing Captain Andor as I do, it is perfectly reasonable to believe that he is still in the field and capable of sending us more valuable information.” 

“Not if the Gestapo have cracked his code and will be sending fake messages in his stead. Most agents talk under torture, Lieutenant. Captain Andor is no exception. He himself should know that better than most.” 

Kay felt his anger rise. “With all due respect, sir, Captain Andor would never crack under torture. Other agents, but not Andor.” He turned to Draven. “I’m certain you agree with me, General. You recruited him. You know his past.” 

But Draven shrugged as if to say _‘what the bloody hell do I know?’_

Disgusted, Kay directed his gaze back to Buckmaster. “Sir, I propose we wait until Captain Andor get back in touch before we make a decision one way or another.”

“Lieutenant, we simply cannot take the risk!” 

“Sir, I ask you to make an exception for Captain Andor. His skills as an agent - ”

“Are irrelevant. If he is indeed still out in the field, he will receive our order to return to England.At this moment, we cannot afford to treat him differently to any other agent. If the entire network is compromised, then Andor himself must be regarded as compromised.”

Captain Knight nodded. “I concur.” 

“Is that all you know how to say, sir?” Kay asked Knight with a sneer. “In present circumstances, I suggest you make a useful contribution and not simply _concur_ with everything - ”

“Kay, that’s enough, goddamn it!” said Draven. The General did not raise his voice, but his tone was incredibly firm. “Either hold your tongue or step outside.” 

“Sir, how can I hold my tongue when I’m speaking sense?” 

“ _Your_ sense maybe, Lieutenant,” said Buckmaster, “but not ours.” 

Captain Knight gave another nod. “I - ”

“Concur?” Kay scoffed. “Sir, I’m only trying to do what’s best for the war effort. No matter what you think of the man, Captain Andor is - ”

“Unpleasant,” said Buckmaster. “Grim.” 

“Loyal. And persistent. If we gave him a chance to - ”

“Alright, that’s enough, Kay, you bloody idiot!” Draven growled. “You’re being incredibly emotional about this whole situation. It’s not helping!” 

“Sir, as someone who prides himself on having a limited emotional range, I strongly disagree with your assumption.”

“Leave the room, Kay, or I will have you escorted out.”

“Sir - ”

“Leave. The. Room.” 

Kay briefly considered making a scene; perhaps he should flip over a chair? Overturn a cup of tea?Punch someone - preferably the smug-looking Captain Knight - in the face? But, no, that would only hurt his case and Cassian’s. And, of course, he was a _dignified_ officer, goddamn it. So he gave a shrug, an ironic smile and exited the room, but not before making sure to close the door behind him with a loud _bang!_

His secretary, a middle aged woman named Diane, looked up from her desk as he approached his office and scrambled to her feet, sending papers and pencils flying to the floor. 

“I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t know the meeting has already ended! I thought it was going to end at midnight and so I didn’t get your tea - ”

“Never mind the tea, Diane. It’s time you went on home.”

“But, sir, you’re still here and I - ”

“Go home, Diane.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Once inside the office Kay threw himself into his chair and let out a long sigh. His head had begun to throb. For a long moment he did nothing at all except sit very still and listen to his own breathing. A cocktail of emotions was swirling inside him - an entirely strange occurrence. What exactly was he experiencing? Anger? Confusion? Shock? Frustration?

He lit a cigarette and smoked it while having his eye on the clock. The transmission from Cassian came in an hour ago, uncoded and rushed; the man was definitely in haste. Kay had been wondering about the fate of his friend ever since that moment. What was Cassian doing now, he wondered? Was he captured? Still alive? Running away? In hiding? For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to indulge in a fantasy in which Cassian was huddled in a ditch somewhere, cursing to himself and regretting not bringing his best friend along to France. Suffice to say, that fantasy faded away very quickly. A few seconds later, he was back to feeling wretched about himself and the world again. 

“Damn you, Cassian,” Kay said to no one in particular. “This is all your bloody fault.” 

_I did warn him, didn’t I?_ thought Kay. _But, no, the man did not listen. Off he went to prove himself and left me here to clean up his messes._

And speaking of his friend proving himself… 

Kay opened a drawer, took out that damned envelope and opened it for the first time. There, written on a piece of paper, in Cassian’s neat handwriting, was Jyn Erso’s address. 

He knew what he must do next. And it was fair to say that he did not at all relish the prospect. 

 

* * *

 

**December, 1943**

 

The Queen Anne pub was in full swing for Christmas. From the moment Jyn Erso stepped inside, she was greeted with the sound of Christmas carols playing from a gramophone. A large Christmas tree had been erected in a corner, draped with golden and silver streamers, with colourful baubles hanging from its stems. A modest-looking wreath hung on a wall behind the bar; she sat down on one of the stools, nodded her head toward it and remarked, “Festive.” 

The pub owner, Frank, a large, red-faced man with white hair and beard smiled. “There you are, love. Been wondering where you’ve been for weeks.”

“Oh, work, you know, Frank,” said Jyn. “They keep us busy.” 

“You’re not going home for Christmas?” 

“Old man, you know perfectly well that my ‘home’ is the one bedroom I rent in an old woman’s house. That’s why I’m always here at your place.”

“So the usual, then, love?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Frank brought over her usual pint of beer and stood watching as she took a sip. 

“You can join me and the missus for Christmas dinner, Jyn, if you have no where else to go.”

“Thank you, Frank, but that sounds dreadfully boring.”

“Ha. Sharp as ever, aren’t ya?” The man grinned. He had very kind eyes, Frank; it was part of the reason why she had warmed to him so quickly. 

She looked around the pub. Not surprisingly, there were not many customers this close to Christmas, but it still felt welcoming nonetheless. The Queen Anne had become a comfort to her ever since she was stationed in this town. Whenever she had time off from work and even after some of her flights, she would come here to drink and relax. Frank’s kindness and humour helped take her mind off the war, and the pub’s homey, warm atmosphere reminded her of better times. She needed the reminder. Especially now. 

“Rough day?” Frank asked. He draped a dishtowel over one shoulder. 

“It’s just the holidays,” Jyn replied, rolling her eyes. “I wish it could be over soon. I’ve never much liked this time of year.” 

Frank grinned. “You sound like you need another pint, love.”

“What I need is an opinion. I have to send a Christmas card to my best friend in America or she’ll be angry with me for the rest of my life.” She took out two Christmas cards from inside her coat and showed them to him. “Which one do you think is better?”

“Bloody hell!” Frank squinted. “They both look awful!”

“They do, don’t they?” Jyn sighed. She studied the cards herself; one had a picture of a Santa Claus who looked more like a creepy uncle than Father Christmas, while the other simply had the royal family. “The shop ran out of cards. These were the only two left.”

“Go with the pervy Santa.”

“Do you think?”

“Well, it’s the lesser of two evils, isn’t it?”

“You’re the worst, Frank.”

He laughed. “Call me if you want another pint, alright, love?” 

For the next hour, while Frank served other customers, she drank, smoked and listened to the carols while trying to come up with an adequate Christmas message for Shara. She eventually decided to write _‘Merry Christmas, you silly goose. Love, Jyn’,_ and left it at that. Shara would not be happy, but hadn’t they already established that letter-writing was not one of her strong suits?

After she put the card away, she read the newspaper Frank had tossed her way, but she felt anxious just after the third page and decided not to read anymore. The papers talked mostly of the war, with atrocities, troop movements and propaganda splashed across every page. She would rather not think of grim circumstances around Christmas, thank you very much. After all, there was someone in France she was trying _not_ to think of. And the last thing she wanted was to think of him in a horrific situation - captured, dead or lost.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Let your heart be light_

_From now on all your troubles will be out of sight…_

“Jyn Erso,” said a voice, breaking into her thoughts. 

She looked around and flinched; she hadn’t noticed the man coming up to her, she had been too absorbed in her own worries. At first she did not recognise him, but when she did - the blond hair, the tight expression, his unmistakable height - her eyes narrowed. 

“You know my name,” she said. “I’ve never known yours.” 

The man did not offer a hand for her to shake. “My name is Lieutenant James Kay, Miss Erso. I am Cassian Andor’s - ” 

“Handler.”

“Friend.” 

“I’ve seen you around whenever I flew Captain Andor. You loitered around his car and kept your distance.” From across the bar, she saw Frank cast them a worried look, but she gave a tiny wave of her hand to reassure him that all was well. “How did you manage to find me, Lieutenant?”

“Cassian left me your address before he went away. I went to your house and your landlady said I might find you here.”

“Cassian _left_ you my address? Lieutenant, I don’t know what gave you the impression that we are - ”

“I have travelled all the way from London with very important news, Miss Erso, and I would rather not spend my valuable time answering irrelevant questions.” 

She gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” 

“No.” 

A muscle in Kay’s jaw twitched. “No, there isn’t somewhere private to talk? Or, no, you would rather not talk to me?”

She studied his expression and his appearance for a few seconds. The man reeked of self-importance, she decided - his crisp and perfectly ironed uniform, his strict haircut, his steely and condescending glare. But she saw something else too: the conviction in his eyes and posture. And she remembered how protective Cassian had been of him whenever she made a remark. _Perhaps I should give the man a chance,_ she thought. _I owe Cassian that much._

“Very well, Lieutenant,” she said. “We can step outside.” 

Wrapped up in their winter coats, the two of them exited the pub under the watchful eye of Frank and stood some distance away from the door, she still smoking a cigarette and he looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else but here. 

“Miss Erso,” he began, “I’m here on behalf of Cassian.” 

Jyn felt her heart plummeting. However, she touched her cigarette to her lips and inhaled in the calmest way she knew how. “I don’t understand,” she managed to say.

“He instructed me to tell you in person if anything happened to him in France. Otherwise I would not be here.”

“Has anything happened then?” 

“I regret to say that something has.” 

For several moments Jyn simply stared at him; the question she knew she must ask was stuck in her throat. 

“Go on,” she finally prompted. _Let’s get this over with. It’s not like I haven’t been expecting it._

Kay looked her square in the face and said, “I’m afraid the spy network Cassian joined in France has been compromised. Several of our agents have been captured. At this moment, we do not know where he is or what has become of him. We have not received contact of any kind from him in two months.”

“ _Two_ months?” said Jyn, her voice rising. “You’ve kept this information from me for _two_ months?”

Any other man would have shrunk in the face of Jyn’s growing anger, but Kay merely shrugged. “We had to make sure that he wasn’t simply in hiding.”

She snorted. “And are you sure now?”

“Like I told you, _Miss_ Erso.” Kay emphasised the word with the tone one would use to address a particularly difficult child. “He hasn't been in contact for two months. We can now safely say that he’s not in hiding.”

“So is he dead?” 

“We don’t know for sure.”

“Is he captured?”

“We don’t know that for sure either.”

“So what do you know for sure?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.”

Jyn made a noise of disdain. “And what are you doing about it?”

Kay blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you trying to find him?” 

“We are _waiting._ ” 

“Waiting?” She hissed, her breath coming out in an angry mist _._ “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting to see if there’s anything we _can_ do,” Kay replied. “Personally, I think it is very likely that he’s either captured or dead. Wireless operators in France don’t have a very long life-expectancy.” When she stared mutely at him in disbelief, he continued, “He knew the risks when he volunteered for the mission, Miss Erso.”

She threw her cigarette into the snow and crushed it with the toe of her boot. “You’re obviously unbothered by all of this, Lieutenant. Some friend you are.” 

Kay’s eyes flashed. “I’ve been more of a friend to him than you’ve ever been,” he snapped. “Now I’m under obligation to come back and let you know if the situation develops, but trust me when I say I do not enjoy doing so.” 

Jyn scoffed. “Oh, I believe you on that front, Lieutenant, don’t you worry.”

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to leave this place - with its Christmas music and Christmas decorations and Kay’s impassive face - and return to her bedroom. She wanted to crawl underneath her blanket and sleep, and sleep, and then sleep some more and not dream of anything at all. She turned away from Kay, not wanting him to see this desire written plain on her face. 

“Is there a way to contact you?” she asked quietly. 

“No. If something comes up, I’ll find you.” 

“That’s not - ”

“Goodnight, Miss Erso.” 

With that, Kay turned to walk away, but before he did so, he paused and threw one last glance in her direction. She could not read his expression very well in the twilight, but it looked like anger, twisted and painful. There was no mistaking the resentment in his voice when he said, “He’s doing all of this for you. I hope you know that. I wish he had never met you.”

Jyn felt her face go numb and her expression hardened. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Lieutenant.”

 

* * *

 

**A Few Months Later**

**1944**

 

Some people would say that waiting for something is like being stuck in limbo. But for Jyn Erso, waiting was standing on a precipice and unable to back away from the edge. She could see every minute detail of the worst possible scenario in her mind’s eye, dreading it ever happening, but knowing all the while that it just might. The hope that it would _not_ was the single thread of hope that she clung to with all her strength. And it was this hope that tormented her; the hope and the anticipation. For how could one ever live their life forever teetering on the threshold of the abyss? 

Ever since Kay came to her with news about Cassian, Jyn had wavered between many different emotions - from anger to fear to indifference to longing. She wanted to feel nothing, yet she felt everything, and this conflict ended up plaguing her to the point of agitation. She should confide in someone; isn’t that what people do in situations such as this? But her letters to Shara in America all remained unfinished and she did know how to tell her friends in England - Bodhi, Frank and the girls on base - about any of it. _How would one even begin?_ she wondered. _Oh, by the_ _way, there’s a SOE agent I was flying around the country for a few years who’s now lost in France? I don’t know if I like him, but I worry about him? Why am I so worried about him? Perhaps you can help give me some answers to questions no one knows the answers to?_ Pathetic.

Her friends must have noticed a change in her, however. During one evening in the mess hall, before she flew for the night, Aster gave her a sideways glance as she poured over the day’s newspaper. 

“Jyn, dear,” the Ethiopian eventually said, “are you looking for something in that paper of yours?”

“What would I be looking for?” Jyn retorted, causing Anna, the Polish woman, to roll her eyes. “I suppose I look for the same things everyone would look for when they read the news.” 

“You’re a rubbish liar,” said Anna, buttering her toast. 

“Perhaps Shara’s right about you, Anna. Maybe you really _are_ a nosey cow!”

“You’re siding with an _American_ over me?” Anna _tsked._ “Do better, Erso.”

Rosemary lifted her head from the sheet of paper she was working on and looked at Jyn carefully with her bright round eyes and asked, “Is something bothering you, Jyn?”

“For goodness’ sake, nothing is bothering me!” She closed the newspaper and nodded toward Rosemary’s paper. “How’s the poetry going, by the way?” 

Even during meals, the Scottish girl was still deeply engrossed in her writing. Although she was shy as ever, she had recently found a burning ambition to get her poetry published in a paper or a magazine. The other girls had been treating the whole thing with endearment; _oh sweet Rosemary, now she wants to be a published author? How adorable!_

Rosemary blushed. “It’s coming along.”

“So when can we read one of them?” asked Anna. 

Rosemary blushed even more. “Oh, I don’t know when - ”

“How are you going to get a poem published when you can’t even let your friends read it?”

“I thought I wouldn’t tell anyone if I ever - ”

“Oh, please! Don’t be a wet blanket.” 

“ _Anna!_ That’s not what I meant at all! I -”

Aster cleared her throat loudly and the two girls immediately fell silent. Then the Ethiopian directed her gaze back to Jyn. “Don’t think I forgot what we’re talking about, _Miss_ Erso,” she said.

Jyn lifted an eyebrow, feigning fright. “Oh. Are you prying into my personal business now, Aster?”

“No,” the older woman replied smoothly. “I simply want to make sure you’re alright. You’ve been different lately.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“I hate to quote Anna, but she’s right, you’re a rubbish liar.”

“Better a rubbish liar than an honest fool.” 

And after that, Aster never asked her again about what was wrong. Occasionally, though, Jyn would catch the older woman studying her quietly, worry written plain on her face.

As winter turned into spring and spring turned into a torturous summer, the news started filtering through from France. But it was neither the news Jyn was hoping for or dreaded. Instead it was the news that more than one hundred thousand Allied troops had stormed the beaches in Normandy and were now advancing toward Paris! The whole country was in a buzz, joyous, but still holding its breath. Jyn, however, spent days going from elation to despair and then back again. She did not know why, but from the very moment she heard the news of the invasion, she connected it in her mind to Cassian Andor. It was nonsensical, she knew, but she felt like the event could provide answers to where he was and what might have happened to him. _Stupid,_ she told herself. _I’ve turned into a stupid, embarrassing woman._

One evening, she went to the pictures with Rosemary just so she could watch the newsreel about the invasion. It was, of course, a horrible idea, as she spent the whole evening distracted, not really paying attention to the picture - _Going My Way_ starring Bing Crosby - at all but dwelling on the scenes in France that she’d seen earlier in the newsreel.

They left the cinema together after the picture was over, with Rosemary still clutching their empty tub of popcorn. Once they were outside, the Scottish looked at her with concern. “Jyn, are you alright? You look quite pale.”

“Do I?”

“Yes. Are you feeling unwell?”

“I do have a little headache, but I might just be tired, Rosemary, I don’t think it’s anything - ” In that moment, her eyes landed on a figure across the street: a tall blond man in uniform leaning against a blacked out car. She felt her heart jump to her throat. “Rosemary, I’m afraid I have to leave you here. Will you be alright heading home on your own?”

Rosemary’s eyes followed her gaze. “Jyn, do you know that man?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to - ”

“Yes, I’m sure, Rosemary. Please. Go on home. I’ll be fine. He’s a - he’s a friend.”

Rosemary looked unconvinced and casted a glance toward the man across the street, but she kissed Jyn on the cheek and went on her way. And Jy n took the leap off the precipice by stepping onto the road.

When she reached the man by the car, she gave him a stiff nod in greeting. 

“Lieutenant Kay.” 

“Miss Erso.” 

“Has something come up?”

“I’m afraid something has. Otherwise I wouldn’t have sought out your delightful company.”

“How lovely. Should we go for a walk?”

“No, we shouldn’t. Get in the car, Miss Erso.” 

She was too concerned to make a fuss and slid into the passenger seat; Kay closed the door after her. Even though he took his place behind the wheel, he did not start the car, and with an air of _‘just getting it over with’_ , he retrieved a piece of paper from a briefcase and handed it to her.

Somehow - she did not quite know _how_ \- she managed to read it without showing any emotion. Once she was done, she tossed the paper back to him and lit a cigarette. 

Kay said harshly, “Can you please not smoke in my car?”

“When did you get this message from him?” 

“Yesterday.” 

“Was it coded?”

“No. I’m guessing he didn’t have the time.”

“So now we know where he’s imprisoned, and we know where the German troops are stationed around Paris.”

“Yes. He probably attempted an escape, came across that piece of intel and decided to send it to us.”

“What a stupid thing to do!” 

“Some people would call it brave.”

“Yes, but not you,” said Jyn. “And he didn’t mention whether he got away?”

“No.”

“Oh, God.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “They’re going to kill him, aren’t they?” 

“If he didn't manage to get away then, yes, quite possibly.”

“Quite possibly?” She turned around to glare at him and seriously considered punching him in the face. How could a man be so _still_ and hard when his best friend was in mortal danger? “Kay, just tell me you lot have a plan.”

“We do. We’ve passed the intel on to the War Office.” 

“I don’t bloody care about the intel! What are you going to do about Cassian?”

“There’s nothing we can do about Cassian.”

“There’s _nothing_ you can do - ?”

“Trust me, I’m not thrilled about it either. But we can’t send in an army to rescue one man. That’s absurd. All we can hope for is that he manages to stay alive until our troops get to the prison.”

“What rubbish!”  said Jyn, her voice rising to a screech. “You know perfectly well that the Gestapo won’t ever let that happen! They’ll execute him as soon as they can! And I’m not asking for an army. It can be anything - a small rescue team, a few secret agents. Anything!” 

Kay whipped around to face her, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I have orders, _Miss_ Erso. Important orders from men who are so high up, you can’t even see them from your high horse. And this is war; sacrifices must be make. Cassian made his choice. I warned him not to take on the mission, but he did anyway. I told him to bring me along, but he didn’t. He was rash, he was impulsive, he was a fool, so there’s nothing I can do for him now. ” 

For a long while, Jyn could only stare defiantly back at him. Then she brought the cigarette away from her lips and breathed smoke into his face. He blinked - once, twice - with annoyance, but did not flinch away. His lips curled and he said, “I told you to put out that cigarette.” 

She shrugged, took another drag and blew smoke into his face again. “Well, I’m going to do something even if _you’re_ not,” she told him spitefully. “I can’t force you to help, although I hope you’ll change your mind. The least you can do is _not_ tell your superiors about my intention. You’re not exactly a decent person, Lieutenant Kay, but I have never pegged you for a back-stabbing coward. So don’t disappoint me.” 

Kay’s lips trembled with fury, and for a second he looked as though he wanted nothing more than to grab that cigarette from her hand and shove it in her eye. 

“I give you my word,” he told her, his voice low and impossibly steady, “that they won’t hear anything from me.”

She gave him a stern, final nod; she had had enough. She opened the car door and got out. However, before she closed it, she leaned down and looked him straight in the eye; she had changed her mind on something. 

“I’ve learned from experience,” she said softly, “that after all is said and done, you’ll wish you hadn’t hold on so tightly to a grudge. It is not easy to stay angry with someone you love once they’re gone, Lieutenant.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You know perfectly well. Goodnight, Lieutenant.”

With that, she closed the car door and left him there with his thoughts. She set out into the night, her heart still hammering from the encounter. _He’s alive,_ was all she could think of. _He’s alive. But for how long?_

 

* * *

 

Kay returned to Baker Street the next morning, and, to his surprise, found his chair in his office already occupied. He immediately looked behind his shoulder and yelled for his secretary. 

“Diane? Didn’t I tell you not to let anyone into my office?”

The woman stood in the door way, her hands clasped tightly between her breasts. “Sir, I’m sorry, but it’s the General, sir. I can’t tell him to go away - ”

“For God’s sake, Diane!” Kay snapped at her. “Why do you think I wanted a secretary in the first place? You’re supposed to follow my orders _especially_ when it comes to keeping out the brass.”

“What a treasonous statement that is, Lieutenant,” said General Draven, not quite smiling at his own quip. He extended a hand to the seat opposite his. “Sit down, Kay. Diane, get the hell out and close the door.” 

Diane obeyed without hesitation. Kay, however, stood stock still, eyeing the chair and the older man with apprehension. _The sneaky bastard!_ he thought to himself. 

Draven sighed. “Sit, Lieutenant. That’s an order.” 

Defeated, Kay draped his coat across the arm of the chair and sat down. For the first time since he arrived, he noticed that the General was without his pipe; a serious conversation then.

“Sir?” he said in way of greeting. 

“So you’re back.”

“I left a message with your office that I’d be taking the day off. I made sure all my duties were sorted before I left, sir.”

“Oh, yes. That message you kindly left about your sick aunt. Tell me, Lieutenant, how _is_ your aunt? Was she so ill that you must hurry out of London in such a manner? Was she at death’s door?” 

“She was, sir, as a matter of fact,” Kay replied smoothly. “And she’s much better now, thank you for asking.”

“But she wasn’t too ill to go to the pictures, was she, lad?”

“Sir?”

Draven smiled; the result was more like a hateful sneer. “We know you met with an ATA pilot and that you had a conversation with her inside your car for around ten minutes.” 

Kay’s jaws tightened and he had to grab the arms of his chair to steady himself. “You had me followed, sir?”

“What were you doing, Lieutenant?” 

“Sir, did you have me _followed_?”

“Who’s the pilot?”

For a moment, all Kay could do was stare hard at Draven. Then suddenly all the tension went out of his body and he shrugged carelessly and said, “She’s the woman I’m seeing, sir. I haven’t seen her in a long time due to our busy schedules. So when I had the chance to escape, I went to spend a few precious, _private_ moments with her. Harmless courtship, sir.” 

Draven chortled. “Forgive me if I don’t quite believe your story, Lieutenant.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m offended! Why is my story so hard to believe?” Kay cocked his head to the side and feigned surprise. “Am I so unattractive and so unappealing to the opposite sex that you can’t imagine me with a partner?” 

Draven’s expression darkened. “If I found out you’ve been going behind my back on the Andor matter - ”

“I haven’t been going behind your back, sir,” interrupted Kay. “I know my orders. I know my place. I, unlike Andor, am not a fool, sir. I have no desire to be heroic.” 

For a while the two men levelled each other with their eyes, until finally, Draven shook his head with resignation. “Alright, Kay, I’ll let this one slide but only because you’re such a damned good asset to us.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“But no more funny business. If I find out you’re planning something - ”

“I’m not, sir.”

“Good.” Draven got to his feet. But before he made his way to the door, he hesitated and said, “If you must know, Kay, I hate doing this to a good agent like Andor, but you know how everything is. I might be heartless, but someone has to be. We can’t win every battle. I know you’d understand. You more than most.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” 

Long after Draven had gone, Kay found himself still sitting in the same chair, mulling over those last words. _You’d understand_ , the General had said. _You more than most._ He lit a cigarette. He poured himself a glass of whiskey. _But why him? Why him more than most?_ Had he been so unfeeling and so practical that the General could believe that he’d just stand by and let his best friend die without doing anything to stop it? _Orders are orders,_ a voice whispered. _I follow orders._ He thought of Jyn and her fierce determination, and felt himself cringe with shame.

Outside the sun had begun to set. When his gaze strayed to the window, he saw the shadows creeping up and down the building next door, like fingers trailing across a bolt of silk. Unbidden, an image appeared in his mind: twilight at Dunkirk, and Cassian’s dark weary eyes as they looked across the fiery seas. He did not know how much time passed after that; he was too lost in the memory. All he knew was that he sat until the moon made its way up the sky. Until it was so high, it could peer down at him from behind a nearby rooftop. 

_Orders are orders. I follow orders._

However, another image appeared: he and Cassian at the stern of a ship watching the sunrise and making a promise that was now broken. _So simple,_ he thought, _when all is said and done._ Perhaps the girl was right. 

He stood up, grabbed his coat and made his way brusquely out of the office. 

Diane looked up from her work and yelped, “Sir?” 

“If the General comes looking for me, Diane,” Kay said as he strode past her, “tell him I’ve gone away.”

“Away, sir? Where?”

“My aunt has fallen ill again. Tell the General I’ve gone to see her.”

“Your _aunt?_ Sir - ”

“Yes, my aunt! Tell him that, Diane. He’ll understand.”

 

* * *

 

**RAF Tempsford**

** Bedfordshire **

 

Bodhi Rook had just landed back at base from one of his usual night flights across the channel when a young cadet took him aside and told him, “London is waiting for you, sir.”

Bodhi, who was still removing his gloves and flying goggles, froze. “London?”

“There’s someone from London waiting for you inside one of the waiting rooms, sir.” The cadet dropped his gaze, as though afraid to reveal more. “They were very secretive. They came an hour ago and asked us cadets where you were. I told ‘em you’re not due back until an hour or so, and they said they’ll wait. They asked me not to tell the officers.”

Bodhi felt the colour draining from his face. London meant serious matters. It meant orders from on high. _What have I done?_ he thought frantically. He had never told anyone, _anyone_ , about the secrets flights he’d been conducting to France for the SOE. He had never gotten drunk and spilled government secrets in a seedy pub. He had never even mentioned the location of his base to his closest friends! So if London was here, it could only mean one thing. 

Bodhi swallowed and clasped the young man on the shoulder. “Thank you, mate. Take care of my plane, alright?” 

The cadet nodded and went on his way. Sighing, Bodhi started toward the main building. 

It must be because of Jyn; he was quite certain. Before, he never told Jyn anything about his job, but there was one thing he could not hide from her: the fact that he flew Cassian Andor and the Scotsman to France. During one of their rare get-togethers on their days-off, he’d told her about their encounter, and Jyn, who pretended very hard not to be intrigued, thanked him and they never discussed the matter again. But now, though, Bodhi began to think that something must have gone wrong somewhere. Jyn must have let slipped to someone that he told, and that someone could have told someone else, and so now he’s…

“Fucked,” Bodhi muttered to himself under his breath. “So now I’m fucked.”

He stopped in front of the waiting room for a moment, drew in a long breath and tried to steady his nerves. When he was as ready as he could ever be, he pushed the door open and found…

“Jyn?” 

Jyn Erso leapt to her feet and gave him a weak wave. “Hello, Bodhi.”

“Jyn, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” He spotted the tall blond man next to her and flinched. “And - and who are _you?_ ” 

The stranger did not offer a hand for Bodhi to shake, but said, “Lieutenant James Kay.” 

“Lieutenant James Kay of what?” 

“It doesn't matter.” The man looked over at Jyn. “Are you going to ask him or should I?” 

“Ask me what?” Then a realisation hit Bodhi and his eyes grew wide. “How did you find out where I was?”

“The place is not hard to find if you know the right people,” Kay answered nonchalantly. 

“What - Jyn - I don’t understand, who the bloody hell is this man?”

“No, Bodhi, please listen.” Jyn stepped forward to take his hand - something she had never done before - and looked into his eyes. What he saw there told him everything he needed to know: this was a matter of life and death. 

“Bodhi,” she said quietly. “We need your help.” 

“You need my help with what, Jyn?”

“Kay and I are going to France. And we need a pilot.”

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title belongs to William Shakespeare. There’s not much history in this chapter. All you need to know:
> 
> \- Cassian’s prison is somewhat based on Fresnes Prison, which is located in the town of Fresnes, south of Paris. 
> 
> \- The D-Day invasion began on June 6, 1944, with up to 156,000 Allied troops, including those from Britain, Canada, America, Free France, Poland, New Zealand etc. 
> 
> \- Buckmaster is Maurice Buckmaster, the leader of the French section (F Section) of the Special Operations Executive (SOE). I only borrowed Buckmaster’s name for my story; his personality and stance in this chapter are entirely made up for the purposes of Plot. However, I urge you to read up on him, as he played a crucial part in the successes and failures of the F Section. 
> 
> \- The F Section’s office was really at 64 Baker Street, London. 
> 
> \- The film _Going My Way_ was really released around May in 1944, starring Bing Crosby and Barry Fitzgerald. It was the highest-grossing picture of the year, and was nominated for 10 Academy Awards.
> 
> \- RAF Tempsford, located in Bedfordshire, was the base for secret squadrons who specialised in transporting agents, supplies and ammunition to and from France by night. Bodhi’s squadron, the No. 138 Squadron, was amongst them. These pilots flew without lights, and were dubbed “the Moonlight Squadrons” and “The Cloak and Dagger Squadrons”.
> 
> \- The poem in the beginning was written by Thomas Wyatt about the execution of Queen Anne Boleyn in 1536. That’s why I decided to name the pub the Queen Anne as sort of an homage to the lady herself. (Just because.) 
> 
> ——
> 
> Please tell me what you thought of the chapter! You can also start a conversation with me about anything, I'm happy to talk! (Films, books, shows, music, history etc.) [You can follow me on Tumblr here.](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)  
> ——
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: “My Soul Is In The Sky” - in which we come to the very last chapter before the epilogue!_


	13. My Soul Is In The Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we come to the very last chapter before the epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re (nearly) at the end! Ahhhhh! Also, this might be a good time to reread the beginning of Chapter One. *nudge nudge*
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than Elvis Presley. So please leave one if you can!

**_Previously:_ ** _Kay and Jyn have recruited Bodhi to fly them across the channel to France to rescue Cassian. The Allied invasion is nearing Paris, and they must get to Cassian before he is executed by the Gestapo. Yes, this mission is as crazy as it sounds!_

* * *

 

_I had begun to think that I was becoming immune to the moon’s enchantment - so often I have looked at it without you and to keep myself from going mad told myself “It’s pretty, yes - but, so what?”… That’s not the way it really is though, darling - the sight of that shining moon up there - the moon that shines on you, too - fills me with romance -; and even though it’s just a dream now, it’s a promise of a glorious future with one I love more than life._

Love letter from **Frank M. Elliott** to **Pauline Elliott** , 1 Day to D-Day

 

* * *

 

**Sometime in 1942**

 

They were in the sky somewhere, and the conversation between them kept altering between the serious and the ridiculous, which is a natural occurrence when there is a lot of time to spare. She flew the plane steadily despite the rain drizzling outside, and he kept his coat on, pulled tight around his thin frame, with the collar turned up. “Why is it always raining when we’re together?” she had quipped earlier, and he had given a thin smile and said, “It’s England, it’s always raining here.” 

“Did it rain the day we met?” she asked. With the amount of alcohol she had consumed that night, some details of the event remained hazy. And it was now dark and late, and one always tends to let their guard down when it’s late. 

“Yes,” he replied, “although not as hard as it’s raining tonight.” 

“Did I have an umbrella?”

“No, I - ”

“You stole one from behind the bar, yes, I remember now.” 

He gave a dry laugh. “You gave me quite a hard time about it.”

“I thought you were insufferable and pretentious,” she said. “And so sullen! So goddamn disagreeable!”

“While you yourself were a ray of sunshine.”

“Well, it certainly didn’t help that I was blind drunk.”

He was quiet for a few moments, then, in a surprisingly careful tone, said, “I have always been meaning to ask…” 

“You’ve been meaning to ask…what?”

“That night.” He shifted in his seat, as if bracing for impact. “How drunk were you?”

“Oh, I was _very_ drunk.” 

“You were drunk the entire night?”

“Well…”

“When we reached your place, how drunk were you?”

She was stumped into silence, and the memory hung between them, unspoken and fragile: the walk past Trafalgar Square toward Big Ben, across the bridge, down by the river, until they reached her door. They had never once discussed what happened next: her accusing him of being nice to her only because he wanted to take her to bed. It had been one of their worst fights (they have had many since), but this one had been swept under the rug so thoroughly as if it were Pandora’s Box. Once opened, once acknowledged, they could never be safe again. 

“I was still very drunk,” she answered quietly. She dared not turn around. “If I’d been sober, I wouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I mean - ” she gave a laugh and a shrug “ - I yell quite often, so I might have _yelled_ , but I wouldn’t have been such a …” - she waited for him to help finish the sentence, but he, like always, stayed silent - “…such a cow.”

He was quiet for another few moments and said, “For argument’s sake, if you had been sober…”

“But I wasn’t.”

“For argument’s sake, if you _had_ been…would you have…”

“Would I have what?”

He shifted in his seat again and tapped an absent finger against the plane window. “Would you have,” he continued cautiously, “said what you have said?”

_Dangerous grounds here_ , she thought; this was the closest they had ever come to acknowledging the tension between them. What did she tell him that night? _You must want something,_ she’d said. _Giving me the armband, the umbrella, offering to walk me home… Do you want to climb up these steps and let me take you inside? Isn’t that what you’re looking for? A quick fuck before you get shipped across the channel?_ She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. 

“I probably would have,” she admitted. “Just because I can never keep my mouth shut. But I would have been…nicer about it.” 

She heard the frown in his voice: “Oh.”

She rushed on before she could realise the significance of what she was saying. “And would you have?” 

“Would I have what?”

“If I had been sober…would you have…”

“Come inside?”

“Yes.” 

“I don’t know,” he replied.

The rain was dying down. She looked ahead at the waning moon. “Yes, you’re right,” she mused softly, “I don’t know either.”

_Might haves. Would haves._ They had enough of them to last a lifetime. 

 

* * *

 

**1944**

 

Jyn Erso was pouring over a map of France in the Queen Anne pub when the door swung open with a crash and Lieutenant James Kay strode in. 

“Oi!” Frank gave a shout. The pub owner pointed a huge finger at Kay. “What do you think you’re doing - ”

“Get up.” Kay seized Jyn by the elbow and hoisted her to her feet.

“Let go of me!” Jyn snapped at him. “Are you mental?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed your mind about _what?_ ” She regarded him with her piercing green eyes and realised suddenly how… _not_ put together he looked. There was a manic glint in his eyes and he had the air of a man who’d just gotten dressed and run out of a burning building. Most unusual for someone like him. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a corner of the pub. “Tell me what’s happened. Has something happened?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Kay repeated. “About Cassian.” He pursed his lips, with his hands lodged firmly on his hips. “You told me you were planning on rescuing him. And I want to help.”

“What about your orders?”

“Fuck my orders.”

Her mouth fell open. “Did someone give you a personality transplant since I last saw you?”

“Does it matter? You wanted me to help so now I’m helping. What have you got?”

She looked down, rather lamely, at the map of France she still had in her hand. “I bought a map.”

“A map?”

She gave him a pointed look. “Well, we need one, don’t we?”

“Give it here.” He snatched the map from her and held it up for inspection. In his most sarcastic voice, he said, “I see you’ve circled the location of the prison.” 

“Yes,” Jyn replied with dignity. “I was thinking of how to get there.”

“Aren’t you a pilot? Can’t you just fly us there?

She gave a frustrated sigh. “Yes, but I’ve never flown to France before. And even if I had, it’d still be better if we have another pilot do the flying. We need someone to stay with the plane when we go off and get Cassian.” 

“Don’t you know anyone who can do it?”

“I have a friend who might be able to help, but I don’t know where he’s stationed.”

“Give me a name. I’ll find him.”

She hesitated for a moment. _Should I trust him?_ she wondered, but then decided she had no choice. 

“Rook,” she told him.

“First name?”

“Bodhi. Bodhi Rook.” 

“Is there a telephone here?”

“There’s one behind the bar.” 

“Alright then. We’ll have to move quickly. Cassian’s running out of time, and someone’s following me. I managed to shake them off, but they might - ”

“What do you mean, someone’s _following_ you?”

But Kay ignored her and sprinted behind the bar to use the telephone. He spent only two minutes making the call, and then he was back at her side, taking her by the elbow and leading her out of the pub; she barely had time to say goodbye to Frank. Kay put her in the front seat of his car, and after igniting the engines, he stepped on the accelerator and sped off so fast, she almost banged her head against the glass. 

“We’ll stop at your place so you can pack some clothes,” he told her.

“Why would I need extra clothes?”

“Because you can’t conduct a rescue mission dressed in an ATA uniform.”

“And where are we going after that?”

“Bedfordshire.”

“Why?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Yes. Why are we going to Bedfordshire?”

“To get our pilot.”

“Bodhi’s in _Bedfordshire?_ ”

“Can you stop repeating everything I say?” Kay grumbled through gritted teeth. “Yes, Rook’s in Bedfordshire.”

“And why are we being followed?”

“We _might_ be followed.” 

“Alright.” She rolled her eyes. “Why _might_ we be followed?”

“Because I’m currently disobeying direct orders, and nothing annoys the brass quite as much as disobedience. That, and a lack of deference.”

“Sounds like a perfect job for me. ” 

“Oh, they’ll have you court-martialled as soon as you walk through the door.” 

“Kay?”

“Yes?”

“One more question.” 

“For God’s sake, what else do you want to know?” 

“You didn’t want to help me rescue him at first. What changed your mind?” 

Kay immediately stilled. With his eyes on the road ahead, he said, “I changed my mind because you were right.”

“I was right about what?”

“You said only one more question. That’s two.” 

She smiled to herself. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is.”

 

* * *

 

Bodhi Rook heard The Plan in the waiting room at RAF Tempsford. 

It was told to him with the aid of a large map of France, a pencil (which was used to make circles and arrows on the sheet of paper), a rather panic-looking but determined Jyn Erso, and a very grim, very sarcastic Lieutenant James Kay. 

They would have to steal a plane - preferably one Bodhi had easy access to - and fly all the way to a region in France that was still occupied by the Nazis. The plane would land in an open field not too far from the prison where Cassian Andor was held, and then Jyn and Kay would sneak into the prison, retrieve Cassian from his cell and return to the plane. Then it would be back to England and freedom. _Easy enough_ , Bodhi thought sarcastically. 

“I suspect there would be local German patrols about,” Kay told him. “So make sure _not_ to wait for us longer than an hour. If we still haven't returned within an hour, take off back to England.”

“But then what about you?”

“Either we’ll be captured or killed, or we’ll make our way down to this town here.” Kay jabbed a finger at a black dot some distance away from the prison. “It has a strong Resistance presence andthe French there might be able to help us find a flight home .”

Bodhi stammered, “I - I don’t see how this plan is - ”

“Good?” Kay laughed. “Yes, you’re right, it is a rubbish plan. We might as well go into France with ‘English Personnel’ tattooed on our foreheads.”

“I’m perfectly aware that the plan’s far from perfect,” Jyn broke in, “but it’s not an entirely  _rubbish_ one.” 

“Kay is right, Jyn,” Bodhi said sheepishly. “It is a rubbish plan.”

“Well, do _you_ have a better plan, then?”

That shut Bodhi up.

What followed was the most fool-hardy, stupidly brave thing he had ever been a part of. He had to sweet-talk a fellow pilot and a cadet while Kay sneaked in to steal a key. Then he took them scuttling around the base, slipping in from one hangar to the next, until they were out in the airfield and identified the plane they wanted. It was very late in the night, only a few hours left until dawn. When he roared the engines to life, he briefly considered telling Jyn that they should postpone the mission; they were running on a very, very tight schedule and he had a bad feeling about rushing the whole thing. But one look at Jyn and Kay and he did not have the heart to tell them that they shouldn’t rescue their friend right at this very moment. Their pain was too obvious, their love and guilt for him too impossible to ignore. If he himself had one chance - this one single chance - to save his mother, he would have done the same, no question about it. So who was he to judge?

Lights in the control towers switched on when their plane took flight; people on the ground seemed to have caught on to what they were doing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a cadet, two pilots and an officer running out onto the runway. 

“Go! Bodhi, go!” Jyn yelled. 

He grabbed the controls and up they went, higher and higher, until RAF Tempsford disappeared from view. Only then did Jyn let out a sigh of relief.

The entire flight was conducted in complete silence, although several times Jyn took out her gun just to make sure it was still in good condition. Kay, on the other hand, sat very still in his seat, his eyes fixed on something outside the window. Bodhi kept his gaze mostly at the path ahead. Occasionally he would glance at the picture of his mother he’d put up on the dashboard. _Wherever you are, mum,_ he whispered to himself, _keep us safe. Keep us safe._ But the question he desperately needed a response to went unanswered: _Mum, are we doing the right thing?_

Fortunately, they crossed the channel without any incident and he was able to land the plane easily enough. The field was empty of any locals, German soldiers or Gestapo officers; silence and stillness seemed to reign over this little tiny corner in the world. The moment he turned off the engines, he felt Jyn’s hand on his left shoulder. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you, Bodhi,” she said. “You’re the best.”

He blushed. “I - I don’t know about that.”

“No, you really are.” She kissed him again on the same spot and hesitated a little. “Listen, Bodhi, if we don’t - ”

“No, you will.”

“But if we don’t - ”

“No, you will.” He reached up to squeeze her hand. “I know you will.”

“Remember,” she said, “if we’re not back within the hour, _don’t wait._ Go on home. No need to worry about us. We’ll find our way. I don’t want you discovered by German patrols and taken prisoner as well. I can’t bear it.” 

“Don’t worry, Jyn. I won’t wait. I promise.” 

Kay gave a shout from outside the plane: “Erso! We have to go!” He tipped a salute to Bodhi. “Good luck to you, Rook.”

Bodhi gave a nod. “And to you.”

Jyn squeezed his hand one last time. “I’ll see you on the other side then, Bodhi.”

_Yes. I’ll see you on the other side._

 

* * *

 

Kay couldn’t help feeling quite proud of the ruse he came up with: in order to break into the prison, he would dress up as a Gestapo officer while Jyn would pose as a French Resistance fighter. He had taken a Gestapo uniform before leaving Baker Street ( _another_ smart decision), and they would pretend that he was an officer stationed in a nearby town (preferably one rather far away so not to raise suspicions) and that he had caught a very dangerous and valuable Resistance fighter who must be kept imprisoned in a high-security prison. The plan was not entirely risk-free, but it was the best one they had under the circumstances. Jyn, although disgruntled, agreed. 

After they left the plane, they made their way across the field and through the woods surrounding the prison. He tried to make sure that his uniform stayed pristine as he crossed the countryside, while she moved ahead, weaving through trees and bushes and over hills as silently as a mouse. Whatever ill feelings he had toward her, he could at least appreciate that she was one of the stealthiest people he had ever met. Despite her faults, the girl knew what she was doing when it came to handling weapons and holding her own. _How infuriating!_

When they finally reached the edge of the woods - just where the prison gate was first spotted - Jyn paused in her tracks and motioned for him to put the handcuffs on her. 

“Three guards at the gate,” she said. “Do you think you can sweet talk three Germans?”

“As long as you play your part, I don’t see why not.” 

“Don’t forget. If they ask why you’re alone - ”

“It’s because I arrested you by myself and that I am under strict orders to put you in prison right away.”

“And if they ask you what I did - ”

“I’ll tell them you tried to blow up a factory, yes, I know the plan,” he hissed. _Click:_ the handcuffs snapped into place around her wrists. “ _I_ came up with the plan. Now…act dejected, for God’s sake. You’re a prisoner of war, remember?”

As they approached the gate, the three Germans immediately snapped to attention at the sight of Kay. It had never been difficult for him to project an air of superiority, and he made sure he played it up in full on this occasion as he strode confidently toward them. _Good evening, sir,_ they said to him. _I have this prisoner here_ , he told them, motioning to Jyn. _I hope you gentlemen could spare a cell._ They talked for a while: _Where are you from, sir? Do you have any news of the invasion? How dangerous is she? She looks too pretty to be dangerous, in all honesty, sir._ Eventually he had to lower his level of friendliness and put the men on alert: _Would you like to get in trouble for not obeying orders?_ The three guards paled: _No, of course not, sir, please go right in, we don’t want to cause any trouble. Here is where you can find the keys; here are the ways you can open and close the cells to lock her in._ Then the guards opened the gate, ushered them inside and gave directions to the prison quarters. 

“How many prisoners do you have left?” Kay asked them. 

“Oh, not many, sir,” one of them answered. “We had to do what he had to do. This little lady might be going the same way very soon.”

A chill went through Kay. He forced himself not to comment. But once he and Jyn had gone into a building and taken the stairs down to the cellars below, Jyn turned around to look at him, her eyes constricted with alarm.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered. “They said they don’t have many prisoners left.”

“Yes, I heard,” he replied grimly. _But I mustn’t think of what that means. Not yet._ He took off her handcuffs and checked his gun again. “Ready?”

She nodded, her lips pressed together. “Come on, then.”

It was already quite dark inside the building, but as they went down further into the cells, it became even more pitch black, they had to switch on their torches. They past cells with nothing but blankets left inside, and empty cells with traces of dried blood on the concrete floor. “Where the bloody hell is he?” Jyn muttered, panic creeping into her voice. He could not reply, only pushed on, opening more cells and peering inside. Until finally - 

“The last cell,” he muttered. 

The second the door swung open, Kay noticed a figure huddled in the corner. It took him a moment to recognise the man (he had changed so much) but when he did, the first thought he had was: _Fuck. Is this my fault, her fault, or his?_

Slowly, as though with great pain, his best friend uncurled from a fetal position and looked up at him; a dying animal raising its head.

“Bloody hell,” he made himself say, “you smell like my grandmother’s rotting corpse.”

 

* * *

 

“On your feet, soldier,” Jyn said, smiling brokenly. “We’re getting you out of here.”

For a moment she thought he had not heard her; he looked at her like she was a ghost. Then his broken mouth opened and the words came out: “Did you get my intel on the troops around Paris?”

“Yes, we did. We sent it straight to the war office,” Kay said. “What the bloody hell possessed you to send that transmission?”

“I couldn’t _not_ send it.” 

Jyn couldn’t help herself. “You could have gotten away, Cassian! You’re such a fool!” 

But he did not seem to hear her, and his eyes suddenly rolled back in his head. Kay shouted his name, crouched down beside him and shook him. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Jyn asked. _No. Not now. Not when we’re already here._

“He’s in shock.” Kay pulled Cassian into a sitting position and touched his cheek. “And he’s burning up. The bastards have been beating the hell out of him. Andor! ANDOR!”

“Yes, yes,” Cassian slurred, his eyes opening again, “I’m - I’m alright.”

“We have to go,” Kay said. “Jyn, help me with him.” 

Cassian was so thin and so frail that after they had hoisted him to his feet, he could not stand and had to lean on her. Only by pressing her fingers to the tiny spot at his wrist, by hearing the way his ragged breathing came out, could she know that he was _alive._ And that he was _here._ Finally.

“Come on,” she kept saying to him as they helped him out of his cell and up the stairs toward freedom (or the _possibility_ of it anyway). “We’re getting you out, come on, Cassian, come on.” _Come on. We have to get out. Come on, come on, come on, come on. Bodhi is waiting with our plane. We have to get out. You have to live._

They had been retracing their steps for about ten minutes when Kay, who was walking ahead, suddenly turned around and whispered, “We can’t continue this way.”

Her heart dropped. “Why not?” 

“I see torchlight up ahead.” 

He was right: she heard murmurs up ahead and shafts of light reflecting off the floor.

Kay jerked his thumb toward the corridor that broke off to the right. “Let’s go this way,” he hissed. “And _quietly._ ”

After they went down the new path - the path to nowhere and to nothing - she began to lose the concept of time. All they found were more darkness, more empty corridors, more whispered conversations as they tried to unravel this labyrinth. _Perhaps we could find our way up to the roof,_ she and Kay said to each other. _Or maybe we could try the gate again?_ But, no, the disguises wouldn’t work this time; Cassian’s presence would jeopardise everything. 

Cassian himself, however, said nothing. At first Jyn thought it was because he was too exhausted, but then she noticed that he was limping. _How come I didn’t notice it before?_ she thought, hating herself. Something was clearly wrong with his knee. 

Her fingers grazed against it. “Cassian - ”

“I got shot,” he explained, his face as white as a sheet. “They got me when I was arrested. Right - right above - ”

“Hush, don’t talk,” she told him. “Save your strength.”

“Jyn?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” His hand circled hers, pulling her closer to him. “For coming to get me.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Did you think I was going to abandon you?”

“Many people would have.” 

“Yes, well, I’m not most people.”

“No.” He circled her hand again, tighter. “No, you’re definitely not.”

Up ahead Kay cleared his throat loudly and said, “Can you two walk faster and save the affections for later?” 

Jyn blushed in the torchlight. Cassian, embarrassed, looked away, but not before she saw the smile on his cracked lips. 

 

* * *

 

_We are being sloppy,_ Cassian thought in his tired haze. 

It was obvious to him that his friends had come here with no good escape plan. They were winging it, desperate to rescue him before he got shot. He was grateful. Of course he was; never in his life had he thought anyone would go to such lengths for him. But a part of him wished they had not bothered at all. If he died alone here, shot by the Gestapo in the middle of the night, he would simply be facing death the way he had faced life: alone. But if Jyn and Kay were to die in the middle of this rescue mission, it would be as though he pulled the trigger himself. _I’m not worth it,_ he thought. _When have I ever been worth it?_

Suddenly, Kay raised a hand to stop them in their tracks. 

“What is it?” Jyn hissed. Her grip on Cassian’s arm tightened. 

“I heard a noise,” Kay whispered back. “Switch off your torch.”

_Click!_ and they were plunged into total darkness. For a few moments, nothing happened; they all stood there in the dark, almost too afraid to draw breath. Then a light shone on them and they turned to find a boy standing behind them, holding a torch in one hand and a gun in the other. 

“Hans!” breathed Cassian, stunned. 

The boy looked even younger in the dim light. His hands were shaking, and he looked straight at Cassian when he said, “You - you told me no one would know I helped you escape. But they - they knew I gave you the key! They knew! They found out! They - they - ”

“Hans,” Cassian said, “I am so sorry.”

“You’re trying to escape again, aren’t you?”

“Hans, lower the gun. We can talk.”

“No!”

Cassian held out a hand. “Hans, there’s no need to panic. No one else is here. You can let us go, they won’t know. Listen to me, Hans.”

“You said that last time! You said they wouldn’t know, but they did!” 

“Hans - ”

“I have to make it home! I _have_ to!”

“I know you do.” Cassian gripped Jyn’s shoulder for support as he stood up straighter. “Just drop the bloody gun, Hans, and listen to me. Drop the gun, and walk away. You’ll get to go home. I promise you’ll get to go home. The others don’t have to know anything about this. Think of your family. Think of your girl.”

For a few seconds the boy just stared back at him. Then, slowly, the gun began to lower. 

“Good man.” Cassian let out a breath. “Now let’s - ”

Everything happened too fast. He heard a _clunk!_ as an object hit the ground. At first he thought that it might be the boy’s gun, but by the time he realised it was his torch, the boy had already took out a whistle from his pocket and blew it. _PEEEEEEEEEEP!_ the sound echoed around the empty corridor like a shrieking of a banshee. _Die!_ it seemed to screech. _DIE! DIE!_

Suddenly, the sound ceased entirely, and Hans crumbled to the ground with a bullet in his chest. 

Words stuck in Cassian’s throat; he could not even give a shout. He turned around to find Kay with a gun in his hand and a grim slant to his mouth. Deftly, Kay stuck the gun back in his belt. Sounds of footsteps and people yelling in German were coming from the other end of the corridor. 

“Come on,” said Kay, without looking at Cassian or at Hans. “We have to move. Now!”

Cassian stared down at the boy, young and bloody and dead. _Is that my fault too?_ he wondered. But Jyn was pulling him away by the arm, and she was whispering into his ear, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, but we have to get you out of here, Cassian, we have to get you out of here now!”

They retreated down the corridor and into an empty room. Kay locked the door behind them and pushed a large desk to block it, barricading them in. Outside the footsteps were becoming louder. More whistles. More yelling. _They know now,_ Cassian thought. _We stand no chance._ All the strength went out of him and he collapsed to the ground.

Jyn took his hand. “Kay, we don’t have much time. He’s not going to make it.” 

“I know! I know!” Kay yelled. “Give me a moment to think, for fuck’s sake!” 

“The window!” Jyn cried, pointing. 

Kay ran over to examine it. Sure enough: the window opened to a balcony, and from the balcony there were stairs leading up to the roof. 

“Get him out this way!” Cassian heard Kay yell.

Jyn’s face appeared before him, panic in her eyes. “Come on, Cassian,” she said again. Then he felt his arms and legs moved at their own accord; his friends were pulling him to his feet, arranging his limbs as if he were a puppet. Across the floor. To the window. _Watch your head, Cassian. Put one leg over._ The night air against his face. He was out of the room. Onto the balcony. Jyn was beside him but not Kay. _Climb._ Her hand helped his find the ladder. _Climb, Cassian._

Then suddenly -

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

“They’re breaking down the door!” Jyn cried. 

Kay took out his gun. “Go! Go! Go!” 

Cassian wanted to yell: _Kay, what the bloody hell are you doing?_ But all he could manage was, “Kay”. 

His friend’s eyes found his. “You can’t run with that knee of yours,” Kay said, “so I’m giving you both time to get away.” 

_No, Kay, no! Come with us! What the bloody hell are you doing?_

But the only word he could say: “No.” 

“Kay,” Jyn said, pushing in between them. “Take my gun. You’ll have a better chance with two guns.”

_What chance?_ Cassian thought in despair. But a grin spread across Kay’s face. 

“Your behaviour is continually surprising, Miss Erso.” Kay told Jyn, his tone almost laced with fondness. Then his eyes landed on Cassian. “You get him away, alright? I can’t stand to look at the bastard any longer.”

_Kay, don’t do this._

Cassian felt his mouth move again: “Kay, please - ”

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

“Cassian, it’s alright,” Kay said, smiling. It was strange to see him smile; Cassian realised he never saw his friend smile much before. “Don’t be a selfish bastard, Andor. You had your heroic moment. Let me have mine.”

“Kay, no, don’t - ” 

“Goodbye, old friend.” 

With that, Kay slammed the window shut, bolted it and turned around to face the door as the Germans battered it down. The last sight Cassian saw of his best friend before Jyn dragged him away was Kay standing with his back straight, guns raised, with a defiant grin on his face. _Do your best,_ the grin said. _Do your fucking best._

_No, no, no, don’t, don’t, don’t…_

 

* * *

 

_Dying is easy,_ Kay thought. 

_When there is a purpose to it, dying is as easy as breathing. All you need to do is plant your feet firmly on the ground, stand up straight, and stare it right in the face._

He was not even envious of those who would have to die in their beds, old and decrepit. Or those who would have to die sick in a hospital. Or those who would have to die in some horrific, random accident. How could getting hit by a car or dying in one’s own bed ever compare to _this?_

The divine finality. The _significance._

He pulled the trigger. Again. And again. And again. 

It was a stupid plan; he knew that from the first. He had never expected to survive the mission. He _hoped_ he would, but he was no fool. It had always been, he knew, an exchange: his life for Cassian’s. Ever since they met, this was how he imagined it would be at the end. Somehow he had always known it. People like he and Cassian Andor do not have friends; trust is as alien to them as a normal life. It was already a miracle that they had come this far together. A price, therefore, must be paid. And he was proud to pay it now.

“Drop your weapons!” one of the Germans shouted.

But Kay pulled the trigger. Again. And again. And again. 

Somewhere - perhaps in his mind’s eye, in his dream or in his own deluded thoughts - Cassian Andor would be making his way over the prison wall and back to their plane. He would make it in time and find his way back to England. He would see the sun rise over the horizon, like that day they saw the white cliffs of Dover together, coming up just beyond the deep blue ocean. _Free._

This was the very last thought Kay had. And it was a very lovely thought indeed. 

 

* * *

 

_Ten minutes gone._

Bodhi lit a cigarette, reclined back in his pilot seat and stared at the moon outside. _A curious night,_ he thought. Why was it so quiet? As if the entire world was holding its breath? The grass stirred. Leaves rustled. Branches swayed. But other than that…nothing. No birds. No insects. No people. For a few moments, his entire body froze in anticipation.

_No,_ he told himself. _Too soon. Too soon._

_Twenty minutes gone._

His mother looked back at him from inside the photograph. Solemn. Kind. But with a secret in her eyes. _Funny_ , he thought. _Has the secret always been there? Or is it just the night playing tricks with me? Maybe I am becoming paranoid._

_Thirty minutes gone._

He fell into a restless sleep for a while. He dreamed of when he was young and his mother took him to Brighton so he could see the ocean. He was building sandcastles on the beach, but his towers kept getting knocked over by the gale. _Here,_ his mother said as she crouched down to help. _You have to make it stronger._ Her hands swept up more sand. _Build it from the ground up. Start slow._

He woke to the sound of the wind whispering against his cockpit. He thought he could taste salt on his tongue. 

_Fifty minutes gone._

He lit another cigarette. Watched as the smoke he blew chased and twirled around in the tiny space. Something was crawling underneath his skin. Not just nervousness, but something deeper and more sinister. Sharp, like needles. Like knives. Like the way his nails kept digging into the palms of his hands. 

_Fifty-five minutes gone._

_Come on, Jyn,_ he thought. _Where the hell are you?_

_An hour gone._

_That’s it._

Dread. It was dread that was crawling underneath his skin.

_An hour gone. An hour_.

Time was up. He should start his engines now and fly back to England. _Don't wait,_ they had told him. _Don’t forget. There are German patrols about…_

But….no, he couldn’t possibly. _A little while longer_ , he told himself. _A little while longer._ What kind of friend would he be if he didn’t wait? 

So he lit another cigarette and looked at his mother. At her eyes and her hands on his shoulders. 

A little while longer. 

_I’ll wait all night if I must._

For a long time nothing happened; he was simply sitting there in anticipation, smoking and muttering things to himself. Listening to the sounds of the night. Then suddenly, from very far away, he saw a light blink. He put out his cigarette and sat up. Then the light blinked again. And again. He knew what it was this time: tail lights. A car was approaching. 

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, he saw a car stopping at the edge of the field. Four German soldiers got out; there was no mistaking those uniforms, not even in moonlight. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but they were pointing at his plane, gesturing wildly. 

“Fuck,” Bodhi muttered. 

He slid down from his seat. _If I stay out of sight,_ he thought, _they might go away. Maybe they’ll think it’s just an old, broken down plane. Maybe they won’t come any closer._ But there was a gun he kept underneath his seat, and he took it out and loaded it just in case. He clutched it to his chest as he sat there, squeezed between his seat and the plane’s console. 

For a long while the world stayed frozen. He could not even hear footsteps. _Jyn, where the bloody hell are you?_ He counted his own breathing in the dark: _one, two, three, four…_ His mother stared down at him from the console. _Jyn, where are you?_

… _ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen_ …

Then he heard a _click!,_ and he knew what the sound was right away. 

As the grenade flew through the air, the very last thought on Bodhi Rook’s mind was this: _I tried my best. I really did try my best._

 

* * *

 

The fall off the roof and over the wall made the pain in Cassian’s knee even worse. Before it felt like there were sharp needles always poking into his skin. Now it felt as if his entire body were aflame. But more tortuous than the physical pain was the wrenching, invisible wound in his gut. _Hans,_ he thought. _My fault. And Kay, too. Gone. Gone._ He had never imagined his life without Kay. Never even tried to. 

Jyn did not attempt to comfort him. Instead she told him to lean on her. “We have to go on,” she whispered ferociously. Her forehead and hands were bleeding from the fall. “I’ll drag you by the hair if I must, but we _have_ to go on.”

He was vaguely aware of his surroundings. They were stumbling through a field, he thought. He nearly tripped over a rock. Bushes. Mud. Trees. He glanced back and saw lights coming on in the prison. He could hear shouting, the sound of dogs barking, cars starting. Gun shots. Then Jyn tugged at his arm and directed his gaze forward again.

“We have to keep going,” she whispered. “Just keep going, Cassian.” 

She was right. _Don’t look back. Don’t look back._

Ahead of them was the sky. And clouds. Stars. He kept his eyes on the stars. Then, suddenly, _fire._

As if from far away, he heard Jyn gave a cry. “No!” He felt his entire body sway as she dropped to the ground. “No. It can’t be. It _can’t_ be.” 

He saw it now: up ahead were flames, licking up and down the carcass of a plane. The flames were crackling along its wings as if they were laughing at them. _Oh you stupid, stupid fools_ , they seemed to say. 

His mouth felt as dry as sand. “Is that - is that - ”

“Our plane, yes.”

“Who was the pilot?”

“Bodhi.”

Another gut punch, and he nearly staggered on top of her. _No,_ he thought. _No more._

“Jyn, this is all my fault.” 

“No, it’s not.”

“If you hadn’t come…” 

Shouts were coming from behind them. Torchlight. Dogs. The whole nine yards. This time he knew there would be no cells for them; it would just be bullets. Bullets and darkness. But somehow he was not afraid. Not for himself anyway. 

“Jyn, it’s all my fault,” he said again.

She snapped, “Stop saying that!” 

“You should not have come.”

“And leave you here to die without doing anything at all?”

“Jyn…”

“COME ON!” She got to her feet and yanked him up with her. Even though she was tiny, she had such strength in her that it took him aback. “I’m not bloody giving up, we’ll go somewhere, we’ll find a way, we’ll - ”

He kissed her.

It did not matter that he was dirty and half-dead and reeking, or that she had tears running down her cheeks and blood everywhere. He should have kissed her the very night he first met her, and he should have kissed her every night since. _Time! Time! I’m running out of time!_

“Cassian,” she said when they broke apart, “we have to go!” 

“I know. But, Jyn…” - he looked down at his stupid leg - “…we won’t get far.” 

“I don’t care.”

“You have a better chance of making it on your own.”

“And leave you behind? Absolutely not!” She laughed. “Did you honestly think that would work?”

“No. But I had to try.” 

She leaned in and kissed him fiercely.

“From now on,” she said, “it’s just us.” 

So they staggered on together, down the little hill and toward the flaming plane. He did not know where they were going or how long it would take for them to get there, but he knew one thing: here, with Jyn by his side, everything else no longer mattered. He was already home. 

 

* * *

 

This is the truth: things could have turned out very differently had Jyn Erso had enough time. Had she had an extra hour or two, she could have planned the rescue mission more thoroughly - finding and researching the prison’s blueprint in detail, examining all the entrances and exits, discovering the surrounding countryside. She could have taken a moment to tell her friends in England - Aster, Anna and Rosemary - a little of what she had in mind. She could have noticed the new letter from Shara Bey in her landlady’s hallway and opened it to find a wedding invitation inside. She could have stopped the German boy from blowing his whistle. She might have even stopped Kay from staying behind. Or Bodhi from getting killed. Or Cassian from getting arrested. Or Cassian from going to France in the first place…

There were a hundred things she could have done differently, but, like life itself, time is a luxury we have been _afforded_ ; it is not always given to us as freely as we think. If only we’re better at using it… 

If only…

Cassian’s leg finally gave out when they were a few yards away from Bodhi’s plane. There was a stream there, a tiny one, snaking through the grass - an image almost too peaceful, it nearly made her laugh. _If we can somehow make it out_ , she thought numbly, _we might even come back here someday. See the sights. Have a picnic. With champagne. Wine. Those little berries you find on the roadside…_

She helped Cassian lie down on the ground. His pain had gotten worse and his face had gone deadly white. It seemed he had lost the strength to speak, like he had done when Kay left them. But he gripped her hand and tugged at it so she could lie down next to him. The sounds - of the fire and the pursuing Germans - seemed to fade away as she did so. 

For a long while she looked up at the sky - at the moon and the stars and the clouds. Oh, how she wished she could be up there in her own plane! Get a taste of flying one last time! They could soar away from here - away from the pain and the grief and the inevitable! But then she turned sideways to study Cassian’s profile in the dark and thought that things could be worse. This, here, with him, was not very bad at all.

He must have felt her gaze on him, for he turned to look at her. 

“Jyn?” he whispered. 

But she could not find the words to say everything she longed to say. All she could do was lift her hand to caress his face, the touch burning. Her fingers whispered against his skin: _Do you know? Do you know? I hope you do, I hope you know._

His fingers whispered back: _I know. I know, I know._

And all the stars wheeled overhead, a thousand eyes feasting on their joy.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical tidbits to share about this chapter. All I have to say is this: don’t hate me. Don’t hate me. Don’t hate me. 
> 
> Also: please, please talk to me about the chapter! PLEASE! [You can follow me on Tumblr here.](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ——
> 
>  
> 
> _Up Next: Epilogue or “But If Mine, Then Yours” - in which we come to the very end of our story_


	14. Epilogue or “But If Mine, Then Yours”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we come to very end of our story. 
> 
> (Includes an **announcement** in the end notes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are (almost) better than FINALLY finishing this story! So please leave one if you can!

_A poem by Rosemary Stewart as published in The Daily Telegraph on 17 November, 1945._

_._

_Dedicated to old friends - R.S._

 

**_The Life That I Have_ **

 

_The life that I have_

_Is all that I have_

_And the life that I have_

_Is yours_

 

_The love that I have_

_Of the life that I have_

_Is yours and yours and yours._

 

_A sleep I shall have_

_A rest I shall have_

_Yet death will be but a pause_

_For the peace of my years_

_In the long green grass_

_Will be yours and yours and yours._

 

* * *

 

Shara Bey got married in her WASP uniform on a Saturday afternoon in a little church in North London, with a bouquet of yellow daisies that she had brought from the tube station. Her hair was not done up in a particular fashion; she only brushed it and tucked it formally under her cap in a way that would make her officer Jacqueline Cochran proud. The groom, too, was in his uniform, with trails of dust and sand from Cairo still clinging to its shoulders; it had only been a day since Kes Dameron returned home from Egypt. 

Initially they had plans for a bigger ceremony in America. Invitations had already been sent out to friends and family. There would be a white dress for Shara, a handsome suit for Kes, a wedding cake as tall as they could find, a large reception. But, of course, after the _things_ that happened, both bride and groom lost the stomach for a full-scale production. Telegrams and letters flew between them as soon as they heard The News. Changes were quickly made, and after the WASP had been disbanded and an armistice was signed with Japan, here they were. The church was one Kes had frequented in his childhood, the Nigerian pastor one whom he had known since he was an infant. _It’s actually quite fitting_ , she reflected. _Who wants a big wedding ceremony anyway? With all the hassle and the stress? Aren’t we already too exhausted?_

The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open windows, making rectangular slants on the floor and reflecting off the stained glass windows: Jesus Christ and his disciples, Mary Magdalen washing Jesus’ feet with her tears, a flock of sheep on a mountaintop. When she walked in clutching the daisies with her head held high, the entire congregation stood up. It was the smallest congregation she had ever seen. Her three friends were dressed in their ATA uniforms: Aster looking regal, Anna with an air of indifference, sweet Rosemary with a bittersweet smile on her lips. Standing close to Rosemary, his arm through hers, was the girl’s new sweetheart. Aster had briefed Shara on his background: a long lost childhood friend from Scotland she’d reconnected with after his release from one of those dreadful camps in Germany. Tall, handsome, but with a haunted look about him, that when his eyes landed on Shara as she walked in, she almost thought, for a second, that Cassian Andor had come back to life. She momentarily paused in her tracks, then shook herself awake and walked on. _The past is over and done with,_ she thought as she looked forward. _And Kes is waiting._

_“I, Shara Bey, take you, Kes Dameron, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.”_

_“I, Kes Dameron, take you, Shara Bey, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.”_

_With this ring I thee wed, You may kiss the bride,_ and then it was over. Months and years of waiting, for a thing that lasted less than an hour. How odd. 

They all gathered outside the church to exchange pleasantries. Aster kissed her cheeks and cradled her face in her hands. 

“God bless you, child,” the older woman said, “with all the happiness in the world.”

Shara felt tears welling up in her eyes. “Won’t you stay? At least for a while?”

“I wish I could, but my family is waiting. They’ve been waiting too long.”

“Not of all us can afford an extended Honeymoon after the war, Bey,” said Anna. The Polish womanhad already lit a cigarette and was smoking it religiously. “We have our own homes to get back to.” 

“When is your flight?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?” Shara felt her heart sink. “I trust you won’t be missing me?”

“Not at all.” 

She smiled. “Goodbye, Lekis.”

“Goodbye, Bey.”

She and Anna did not hug, but she gave Aster one last embrace before they walked away. Then it was just Rosemary.

Rosemary’s gentleman was deep in conversation with Kes a distance away, two uniforms huddled together in some secret conference. Rosemary casted her eyes in their direction and told her quietly, “I must apologise, Shara, Ruescott has never been the social type. And now, after what he’s been through…”

“No, please, don’t apologise.” Shara reached out to grab the Scottish girl’s hand. “I’m just happy you’re here. I saw the poem you got published in the Daily Telegraph. It’s wonderful, it truly is.”

Rosemary’s sweet smile brightened up her pale face. “Oh, you really think so?”

“Of course! I’m sure your brother would be proud. And about the dedication.” Shara’s tears threatened to fall. All she could do was grip Rosemary’s hand tighter. “It’s lovely, it really is. I only wish…”

“I know.”

They did not have to say anymore, so they embraced and clung to each other for a while. In a few days, Rosemary would return to Scotland. Aster and Anna would be gone. And then it would begin: the world trying in vain to return to the way it was before 1939. But the glass had already been shattered, she reflected, all the pieces scattered on the floor - some sharp, some jagged, some blunt. A mosaic of glittering stardust that could never be put back together. 

The women broke apart and kissed each other goodbye one last time. Then Shara stood arm in arm with Kes as they watched the Scottish couple walk toward the tube station. There was a quiet moment of peace as they surveyed the orange and yellow leaves rustling on the ground, teased by the chilly autumn air. The building opposite the church that had been destroyed in the Blitz stood in silent judgement over the scene. Its gaping mouth and eyes looked sad in their emptiness. A young mother walked by, holding her son by the hand. Another soldier in uniform doffed his cap to her when they passed. The war was over, but here they were, the morning after the party, still bleary-eyed and picking up bottles after the guests had gone home. 

Kes reached out a hand and his fingers grazed over the petals of her daisies. “A day like today…it really makes you think, doesn’t it?” 

“Are you going to tell me about your conversation with Rosemary’s fella?” 

Kes gaped at her. “How’d you know? And his name is not ‘Rosemary’s fella’. It happens to be Ruescott Melshi.” 

“I still prefer ‘Rosemary’s fella’. And I’m your wife,” Shara said with relish. “I know what’s on your mind when you have that look in your eyes.”

Kes smiled. It was a different smile than the one she saw the day they first met. His smile was now a little crooked, a little more experienced, but traces of his old self remained: the playfulness and the warmth. It gave her a comforting reminder: not everything before the war was _entirely_ gone. 

“Melshi told me that he knew Cassian and Kay,” Kes said softly. He did not look at her but covered her hand with his own. “He was with Cassian in France and he knew Kay from Baker Street. He said we could sit down one of these days and he can fill us in on the missing details.”

Shara found herself too overwhelmed to answer. Ever since they heard The News, they had been stumbling around in the dark, trying to piece together the fragments. Why? How? Was everything as futile as it seemed? Knowing more…would it help? She wasn’t quite so certain. 

“Melshi told me he didn’t know how he survived the camp,” Kes said. “Absolutely no idea. And it made me realise that it’s all random selection, really, isn’t it? That we’re here and they’re not? It’s only luck.” 

Shara thought of Jyn and her smile. The way her eyes would light up when she laughed. “They should be here. I wish they were here.”

“I know.”

“She would have liked the daisies.’

They strolled down the road together arm in arm. For a while they said nothing; what could they say that had not been said already? Along the way they passed more ruined houses, more broken-down buildings. Carcasses of destroyed cars and piles of rubble. Many of the people they met on the streets - men and women - were still in their uniforms, and it made Shara wonder when she would stop wearing hers. A part of her - a deeply lost and selfish part - wished she could keep it on forever. Purpose is addictive that way. 

Finally her new husband posed a question: “So where are we going next?”

She had the answer ready. “Somewhere we can see the sky,” she said. “Somewhere it’s possible for me to go flying.”

He smiled. “Alright. Somewhere outside the city then. With a field. Maybe a forest.”

“And a stream. And a garden.” 

“I’ll build you a house.”

“You can’t build a house! You don’t even know how!”

“Fair point. How about I plant you a tree instead?”

She gave him a look of intrigue. “A tree?”

“A big tall tree that we can see from our bedroom window.”

“A tree sounds nice.” 

“Yes, I’ll even try and build a tree house. Small steps, you know. I’ve always wanted a tree house.”

“What use can we possibly have for a tree house?” 

“Children like tree houses.”

“Children?” She laughed. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He shrugged, a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m thinking…two or three?”

“Goodness! I’ll settle for just one!” 

“A boy or a girl?”

“Doesn’t matter as long as I can take the little one up on a plane with me!” 

“Oh, I love you.” He bent down to kiss her deeply and whispered against her mouth, “And I can’t _wait_ to get you out of this uniform!” 

Nothing would ever be the same again. Ever. But his fingers were trailing from the small of her back up to the nape of her neck and into her hair. The sun was shining and the day was not yet over. And even when it was over, there would be more days ahead. _Time, time, time. We have all the time in the world._

.

.

.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapter titles belong to William Shakespeare. Now a couple of important points and an announcement: 
> 
> \- Victory in Europe Day (VE Day) was 8 May 1945. Japan’s surrender was announced on August 15 and signed on September 2. 
> 
> \- During the war, The Daily Telegraph covertly helped in the recruitment of code-breakers for Bletchley Park. The ability to solve The Telegraph's crossword in under 12 minutes was considered to be a recruitment test. (Wikipedia) 
> 
> \- Kes’ mention of planting a tree is a nod to the Force-sensitive tree Kes and Shara planted outside of their house on Yavin 4. Also, kudos to anyone who spotted the reference Melshi made to Rosemary in ['Make Death Proud To Take Us: Part III'.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11367717/chapters/28959972)
> 
> \- The poem by Rosemary is actually a poem by Leo Marks, a cryptographer for the SOE. The poem was used as code by a French agent named Violette Szabo, who was tortured and killed by the Nazis. Marks wrote the poem on Christmas Eve 1943 in memory of his girlfriend Ruth, who died in a plane crash in Canada. The poem really fits this story, so I had to include it so you guys can have a chance to read it!
> 
> \- Thank you so much to everyone who has read, given kudos or commented on this story. This is my first ever multi-chapter story and it was, at times, very difficult to write. Your encouragement, enthusiasm and support were monumental and they were what kept me going until the very end. I cannot find the words to express how grateful I am, so please just know that receiving feedback from you and talking to you (both on here and on Tumblr) have been one of the most rewarding experiences in my life! THANK YOU! 
> 
> \- This story is _far_ from perfect and if I could go back in time, I might have done things very differently. (Certain aspects of the ending come to mind; I basically fell off the wagon towards the end.) I’m a very inexperienced writer and English is my second language. Although writing fanfiction has helped me improved greatly, I’m still a novice when it comes to creative-writing. So I would like to apologise to anyone who might have felt let down by the ending or by certain aspects of this story. I really did try my best, and I hope that, despite the imperfections, you still enjoyed the journey and the history behind it! 
> 
> \- **Announcement** : Despite a brief phase in my teens when I read fanficiton on ff.net, I haven’t engaged with fan fiction culture in years. It’s not until I saw Rogue One that I began reading fanfiction again and was inspired to write my own stories for the very first time. Now more than a year has passed since the film’s release. I feel like I’ve told every important story that I have to tell in this fandom, so I regret to tell you guys that ‘Once You’ve Tasted Flight’ is my very last one. From now on, I will be focusing on original writing instead. (I have gotten a few articles published, I have my own blog and I want to try my hand at starting an original novel.) Writing fanficton has been a huge learning experience, and I am very grateful that I’ve managed to write stories that I’m proud of and that so many people have enjoyed. I’ll still be reading and replying to comments, [and I’ll still be available on Tumblr where you guys are welcome to talk to me anytime!](http://justkeeponthegrass.tumblr.com/) Again, everyone has been nothing but amazing with me. As I bid farewell to life on AO3, I just want to emphasise again how much I appreciate you all! Love always xx


End file.
